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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


V 


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'HE  YOUNG  OUTLAW 


OR 


ADRIFT   IN  THE  STREETS 


HORATIO  ALGER,  Jr. 

AOTHOR   OE    "ERIE  TRAIN   BOY,"    "YOUNG   ACROBAT,' 

#,ONI,Y    AN    IRISH    BOY,"     "BOUND    TO    WIN," 

"STRONG  AND  STEADY,"    "JULIUS, 

THE  STREET  BOY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


ALGER  SERIES    FOR   BOYS. 

UNIFORM  WITH  THIS  VOLUME. 
By  HORATIO  ALGER,  Jr. 


Adrift  in  New  York. 

A  Cousin's  Conspiracy. 

Andy  Gordon. 

Andy  Grant's  Pluck. 

Bob  Burton. 

Bound  to  Rise. 

Brave  and  Bold. 

Cash  Boy. 

Chester  Rand 

Do  and  Dare. 

Driven  from  Home. 

Erie  Train  Boy. 

Facing  the  World. 

Five  Hundred  Dollars. 

Frank's  Campaign. 

Grit. 

Hector's  Inheritance. 

Helping  Himself. 

Herbert  Carter's  Legacy. 

In  a  New  World. 

Jack's  Ward. 

Jed,  the  Poor  House  Boy. 

Joe's  Luck. 

Julius,  the  Street  Boy. 

Luke  Walton. 


Making  His  Way. 
Mark  Mason. 
Only  an  Irish  Boy. 
Paul,  the  Peddler. 
Phil,  the  Fiddler. 
Ralph  Raymond's  Heir. 
Risen  from  the  Ranks. 
Sam's  Chance. 
Shifting  for  Himself. 
Sink  or  Swim. 

flow  and  Sure, 
tore  Boy. 
Strive  and  Succeed. 
Strong  and  Steady. 
Struggling  Upward. 
Tin  Box. 

Tom,  the  Bootblack. 
Tony,  the  Tramp. 
Try  and  Trust. 
Wait  and  Hope. 
Walter  Sherwood's  Pro- 
bation. 
Young  Acrobat. 
Young  Adventurer. 
Young  Outlaw. 
Young  Salesman. 


Price,   Post-Paid,   jjc.   each,   or  any  three 
books  for  $  i.oo. 

HURST  &  COMPANY 
Publishers,  New  York. 


The  Young  Outlaw, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   YOUNG   OUTLAW. 

"Boy,  is  this  Canal  Street?" 

The  speaker  was  evidently  from  the  country. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  with  prominent  features, 
and  a  face  seamed  and  wrinkled  by  the  passage 
ef  nearly  seventy  years.  He  wore  a  rusty  cloak, 
in  the  style  of  thirty  years  gone  by,  and  his 
clothing  generally  was  of  a  fashion  seldom 
seen  on  Broadway. 

The  boy  addressed  was  leaning  against  a 
lamppost,  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets.  His 
clothes  were  soiled  and  ragged,  and  a  soft  hat, 
which  looked  as  if  it  had  served  in  its  varied 
career  as  a  football,  was  thrust  carelessly  on 


2  The    Young   Outlaw. 

his  head.  He  looked  like  a  genuine  representa- 
tive of  the  'street  Arab,"  with  no  thought  for 
tomorrow  and  its  needs,  and  contented  if  he 
!ould  only  make  sure  of  a  square  meal  to-day. 
3is  face  was  dirty,  and  marked  by  a  mingled 
expression  of  fun  and  impudence;  but  the  fea- 
tures were  not  unpleasing,  and,  had  he  been 
clean  and  neatly  dressed,  he  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  considered  good-looking. 

He  turned  quickly  on  being  addressed,  and 
started  perceptibly,  as  his  glance  met  the  in- 
quiring look  of  the  tall  stranger.  He  seemed  at 
first  disposed  to  run  away,  but  this  intention 
was  succeeded  by  a  desire  to  have  some  fun 
with  the  old  man. 

"Canal  Street's  about  a  mile  off.  I'll  show 
yer  the  way  for  ten  cents." 

"A  mile  off?  That's  strange,"  said  the  old 
man,  puzzled.  "They  told  me  at  the  Astor 
House  it  was  only  about  ten  minutes'  walk, 
(straight  up." 

"That's  where  you  got  sold,  gov'nor.  Give 
me  ten  cents,  and  you  won't  have  no  more 
trouble." 

"Are  you  sure  you  know  Canal  Street  your- 


The   Young   Outlaw.  3 

self?"  said  the  old  man,  perplexed.    "They'** 
^ught  to  know  at  the  hotel." 

"I'd  ought  to  know,  too.  That's  where  mj 
store  is." 

"Your  store !"  ejaculated  the  old  man,  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  his  ragged  companion,  who  cer- 
tainly looked  very  little  like  a  New  York  mer- 
chant. 

"In  course.  Don't  I  keep  a  cigar  store  at  No. 
95!" 

"I  hope  you  don't  smoke  yourself,"  said  the 
deacon— -for  he  was  a  deacon — solemnly. 

"Yes,  I  do.     My  constitution  requires  it." 

"My  boy,  you  are  doing  a  lasting  injury  to 
your  health,"  said  the  old  man,  impressively. 

"Oh,  I'm  tough.  I  kin  stand  it.  Better  give 
a  dime,  and  let  me  show  yer  the  way." 

The  deacon  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  Canal 
Street,  and  after  some  hesitation,  for  he  was 
fond  of  money,  he  drew  out  ten  cents  and 
banded  it  to  his  ragged  companion. 

"There,  my  boy,  show  me  the  way.  I  shouh 
think  you  might  have  done  it  for  nothing." 

"That  ain't  the  way  we  do  business  in  the 
tity,  gov'nor." 


4  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Well,  go  ahead;  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"You  needn't  be,  for  this  is  Canal  Street," 
said  the  boy,  edging  off  a  little. 

"Then  you've  swindled  me,"  said  the  deacon, 
wrathfully.   "Give  me  back  that  ten  cents." 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  said  the  boy,  mockingly. 
"That  ain't  the  way  we  do  business  in  the  city. 
I'm  goin'  to  buy  two  five-cent  cigars  with  that 
money." 

"You  said  you  kept  a  cigar  store  yourself," 
said  the  deacon,  with  sudden  recollection. 

"You  mustn't  believe  all  you  hear,  gov'nor," 
said  the  boy,  laughing  saucily. 

"Well,  now,  if  you  ain't  a  bad  boy,"  said  the 
old  man. 

"What's  the  odds  as  long  as  you're  happy?" 
said  the  young  Arab,  carelessly. 

Here  was  a  good  chance  for  a  moral  lesson, 
and  the  deacon  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
point  out  to  the  young  reprobate  the  error  of 
his  ways. 

"My  young  friend,"  he  said,  "how  can  you 
expect  to  be  happy  when  you  lie  and  cheat? 
Such  men  are  never  happy." 

"Ain't  they,  though?  You  bet  111  be  happy 


The   Young   Outlaw.  t 

when  I'm  smokin'  the  two  cigars  I'm  going  t( 
buy." 

"Keep  the  money,  but  don't  buy  the  cigars," 
said  the  deacon,  religion  getting  the  better  of 
his  love  of  money.  "Buy  yourself  some  clothes 
You  appear  to  need  them." 

"Buy  clo'es  with  ten  cents!"  repeated  the 
boy,  humorously. 

"At  any  rate,  devote  the  money  to  a  useful 
purpose,  and  I  shall  not  mind  being  cheated 
out  of  it.  If  you  keep  on  this  way,  you'll  end 
on  the  gallows." 

"That's  comin'  it  rather  strong,  gov'nor. 
Hanging's  played  out  in  New  York.  I  guess 
I'm  all  right." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  all  wrong,  my  boy.  You're 
travelin'  to  destruction." 

"Let's  change  the  subject,"  said  the  street 
boy.  "You're  gittin'  personal,  and  I  don't  like 
personal  remarks.  What'll  you  bet  I  can't  tell 
your  name?" 

"Bet !"  ejaculated  the  deacon,  horrified. 

"Yes,  gov'nor,  I'll  bet  you  a  quarter  I  kii 
tell  your  name." 


6  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"I  never  bet.  It's  wicked,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  emphasis. 

"Well,  we  won't  bet,  then,"  said  the  boy. 
"Only  if  I  tell  your  name  right,  you  give  me 
ten  cents.  If  I  don't  get  it  right,  I'll  give  back 
this  dime  you  gave  me.  Ain't  that  fair?" 

The  deacon  might  have  been  led  to  suspect 
that  there  was  not  much  difference  between 
the  boy's  proposal  and  the  iniquity  of  a  bet, 
but  his  mind  was  rather  possessed  by  the 
thought  that  here  was  a  good  chance  to  recover 
the  money  out  of  which  he  had  been  so  adroit- 
ly cheated.  Surely  there' was  no  wrong  in  re- 
covering that,  as  of  course  he  would  do,  for 
how  could  a  ragged  street  boy  tell  the  name  of 
one  who  lived  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  dis- 
tant, in  a  small  country  town? 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  the  deacon. 

"You'll  give  me  ten  cents  if  I  tell  y<rar 
name?" 

"Yes,  and  you'll  give  me  back  the  money  * 
gave  you  if  you  can't  tell." 

"That's  it,  gov'nor." 

"Then,  what's  my  name,  boy?"  and  the  dea- 


The   Young   Outlaw.  7 

con  extended  his  hand  in  readiness  to  receive 
the  forfeit  of  a  wrong  answer. 

"Deacon  John  Hopkins,"  answered  the  boy, 
confidently. 

The  effect  on  the  old  man  was  startling.  He 
was  never  more  surprised  in  his  life.  He  stared 
at  the  boy  open-mouthed,  in  bewilderment  and 
wonder. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"Ain't  I  right,  gov'nor?" 

"Yes,  my  boy,  you're  right ;  but  how  on  earth 
did  you  find  out?" 

"Give  me  the  money,  and  I'll  tell  you,"  and 
the  boy  extended  his  hand. 

The  deacon  drew  the  money  from  his  vest 
pocket,  and  handed  it  to  the  young  Arab  with- 
out remonstrance. 

"Now,  tell  me,  my  boy,  how  you  know'd  me." 

The  boy  edged  off  a  few  feet,  then  lifted  his 
venerable  hat  so  as  to  display  the  whole  of  his 
face. 

"I'd  ought  to  know  you,  deacor  "  he  said, 
"I'm  Sam  Barker." 


8  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"By  gracious,  if  it  ain't  Sam!"  ejaculated 
the  old  man.   "Hello !  stop,  I  say !" 

But  Sam  was  halfway  across  the  street.  The 
deacon  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  dashed 
after  him,  his  long  cloak  floating  in  the  wind, 
and  his  hat  unconsciously  pushed  back  on  the 
top  of  his  head. 

"Stop,  you  Sam !"  he  shouted. 

But  Sam,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder, 
already  three  rods  in  advance,  grinned  pro- 
vokingly,  but  appeared  to  have  no  intention  of 
stopping.  The  deacon  was  not  used  to  running, 
nor  did  he  make  due  allowance  for  the  diffi- 
culty of  navigating  the  crowded  streets  of  the 
metropolis.  He  dashed  headlong  into  an  apple 
stand,  and  suffered  disastrous  shipwreck.  The 
apple  stand  was  overturned,  the  deacon's  hat 
flew  off,  and  he  found  himself  sprawling  on  the 
sidewalk,  with  apples  rolling  in  all  directions 
around  him,  the  angry  dame  showering  male- 
dictions upon  him,  and  demanding  compensa- 
tion for  damages. 

The  deacon  picked  himself  up,  bruised  and 
ashamed,  recovered  his  hat,  which  had  rolled 
into  a  mud  puddle,  and  was  forced  to  pay  the 


The    Young   Outlaw.  g 

woman  a  dollar  before  he  could  get  away. 
When  this  matter  was  settled,  he  looked  for 
Sam,  but  the  boy  was  out  of  sight.  In  fact,  he 
was  just  around  the  corner,  laughing  as  if  he 
would  split.  He  had  seen  his  pursuer's  discom- 
fiture, and  regarded  it  as  a  huge  practical  joke. 
"I  never  had  such  fun  in  all  my  life,"  he 
ejaculated,  with  difficulty,  and  he  went  off  into 
a  fresh  convulsion.  "The  old  fellow  won't  for- 
get me  in  a  hurry." 


io  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SAM'S  EARLY  LIFE. 

Three  years  before  the  meeting  described  in 
the  previous  chapter  Sam  Barker  became  an 
orphan,  by  the  death  of  his  father.  The  father 
was  an  intemperate  man,  and  no  one  grieved 
much  for  his  death.  Sam  felt  rather  relieved 
than  otherwise.  He  had  received  many  a  beat- 
ing from  his  father,  in  his  fits  of  drunken  fury, 
and  had  been  obliged  to  forage  for  himself  for 
the  most  part,  getting  a  meal  from  one  neigh- 
bor, a  basket  of  provisions  from  another,  and 
so  managed  to  eke  out  a  precarious  subsistence 
in  the  tumble-down  shanty  which  he  and  his 
father  occupied. 

Mr.  Barker  left  no  will,  for  the  good  and 
sufficient  reason  that  he  had  no  property  to 
dispose  of.  So,  on  the  day  after  the  funeral, 
Sam  found  himself  a  candidate  for  the  poor- 
house.  He  was  a  stout  boy  of  twelve,  strong 
and  sturdy  in  spite  of  insufficient  food,  and 


The    Young   Outlaw.  n 

certainly  had  suffered  nothing  from  luxurious 
living. 

It  was  in  a  country  town  in  Connecticut, 
near  the  Rhode  Island  border.  We  will  call  it 
Dudley.  The  selectmen  deliberated  on  what 
should  be  done  with  Sam. 

"There  isn't  much  for  a  lad  like  him  to  do 
at  the  poorhouse,"  said  Major  Stebbins.  "He 
ought  to  be  set  at  work.  Why  don't  you  take 
him,  Deacon  Hopkins?" 

"I  do  need  a  boy,"  said  the  deacon,  "but  I'm 
most  afeared  to  take  Sam.  He's  a  dreadful  mis- 
chievous boy,  I've  heerd." 

"He's  had  a  bad  example  in  his  father,"  said 
the  major.  "You  could  train  him  up  the  way 
he  ought  to  go." 

"Mebbe  I  could,"  said  the  deacon,  flattered 
by  this  tribute,  and  reflecting,  moreover,  that 
he  could  get  a  good  deal  of  work  out  of  Sam 
without  being  obliged  to  pay  him  wages. 

"You  could  train  him  up  to  be  a  respectable 
man,"  said  the  major.  "They  wouldn't  know 
what  to  do  with  him  at  the  poorhouse." 

So  the  deacon  was  prevailed  upon  to  take 
Sam  to  bring  up. 


'12  The    Young    Outlaw. 

"You're  goin'  to  live  with  me,  Samuel,"  said 
the  deacon,  calling  the  boy  to  his  side. 

"Am  I?"  asked  Sam,  surveying  the  old  man 
attentively. 

"Yes;  I  shall  try  to  make  a  man  of  you." 

"I'll  get  to  be  a  man  anyway,  if  I  live  long 
enough,"  said  Sam. 

"I  mean  I  will  make  a  man  of  you  in  a  moral 
sense,"  explained  the  deacon. 

This,  however,  was  above  Sam's  comprehen- 
sion. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do  when  you're  a 
man?"  asked  the  deacon. 

"Smoke  a  pipe,"  answered  Sam,  after  some 
reflection. 

The  deacon  held  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"What  a  misguided  youth!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Can  you  think  of  nothing  better  than  to 
smoke  a  pipe?" 

"Dad  liked  it,"  said  Sam;  "but  I  guess  he 
liked  rum  better." 

"Your  father  was  a  misguided  man,"  said 
the  deacon.  "He  wasted  his  substance  in  riot- 
ous living." 

"You  ought  to  have  seen  him  when  he  wa» 


The   Young   Outlaw.  13 

tight,"  said  Sam,  confidentially.  "Didn't  he 
tear  round  then?  He'd  fling  sticks  of  wood  at 
my  head.  Oh,  jolly!  Didn't  I  run?  I  used  to 
hide  under  the  bed  when  I  couldn't  run  out 
of  doors." 

"Your  father's  dead  and  gone.  I  don't  want 
to  talk  against  him,  but  I  hope  you'll  grow  up 
a  very  different  man.  Do  you  think  you  will 
like  to  live  with. me?" 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Sam.  "You  live  in  a  good 
house,  where  the  rain  don't  leak  through  the 
roof  on  your  head.  You'll  give  me  lots  to  eat, 
too,  won't  you?" 

"You  shall  have  enough,"  said  the  deacon, 
cautiously,  "but  it  is  bad  to  over-eat.  Boys 
ought  to  be  moderate." 

"I  didn't  over-eat  to  home,"  said  Sam.  "I 
went  one  day  without  eatin'  a  crumb." 

"You  shall  have  enough  to  eat  at  my  house, 
but  you  must  render  a  return." 

"What's  that?" 

"You  must  pay  for  it." 

"I  can't ;  I  ain't  got  a  cent." 

"You  shall  pay  me  in  work.  He  that  doe* 
not  work  shall  not  eat." 


14  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Have  I  got  to  work  very  hard?"  asked  Sam. 

"I  will  not  task  you  beyond  your  strength, 
but  I  shall  expect  you  to  work  faithfully.  I 
work  myself.   Everybody  works  in  my  house." 

Sam  was  occupied  for  a  brief  space  in  con- 
sidering the  great  problem  that  connects  labor 
and  eating.  Somehow  it  didn't  seem  quite 
satisfactory. 

"I  wish  I  was  a  pig!"  he  burst  out,  rather 
unexpectedly. 

"Why?"  demanded  the  deacon,  amazed. 

"Pigs  have  a  better  time  than  men  and  boys. 
They  have  all  they  can  eat,  and  don't  have  to 
work  for  it,  nuther." 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,"  said  the  deacon, 
shocked.  "Pigs  are  only  brute  animals.  They 
have  no  souls.  Would  you  be  willing  to  give  up 
your  immortal  soul  for  the  sake  of  bein'  idle, 
and  doin'  no  work?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  'bout  my  immortal 
soul.  What  good  does  it  do  me?"  inquired  Sam. 

"I  declare!  the  boy's  actilly  gropin'  in 
heathen  darkness,"  said  the  deacon,  beginning 
to  think  he  had  undertaken  a  tough  job. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Sam,  mystified. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  15 

"I  haven't  time  to  tell  you  now,  but  I  must 
have  a  long  talk  with  you  some  day.  You  ain't 
had  no  sort  of  bringing  up.  Do  you  ever  read 
the  Bible?" 

"No,  but  I've  read  the  life  of  Capt.  Kidd. 
He  was  a  smart  man,  though." 

"Capt.  Kidd,  the  pirate?"  asked  the  deacon, 
horrified. 

"Yes.  Wan't  he  a  great  man?" 

"He  calls"  a  pirate  a  great  man!"  groaned 
the  deacon. 

"I  think  I'd  like  to  be  a  pirate,"  said  Sam, 
admiringly. 

"Then  you'd  die  on  the  gallus!"  exclaimed 
the  deacon,  with  energy. 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  I  wouldn't  let  'em  catch 
me,"  said  Sam,  confidently. 

"I  never  heerd  a  boy  talk  so,"  said  the  dea- 
con.    "He's  as  bad  as  a — a  Hottentot." 

Deacon  Hopkins  had  no  very  clear  idea  as  to 
the  moral  or  physical  condition  of  Hottentots, 
or  where  they  lived,  but  had  a  general  notion 
that  they  were  in  a  benighted  state,  and  the 
comparison  seemed  to  him  a  good  one.  Not  so 
to  Sam. 


ifr  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"You're  calling  me  names,"  he  said,  discom 
tentedly.  "You  called  me  a  Hottentot." 

"I  fear  you  are  very  much  like  those  poor, 
benighted  creatures,  Samuel,"  said  his  new 
guardian ;  "but  it  isn't  wholly  your  fault.  You 
have  never  had  any  religious  or  moral  instruc- 
tion. This  must  be  rectified.  I  shall  buy  you  a 
catechism  this  very  day." 

"Will  you?"  asked  Sam,  eagerly,  who,  it 
must  be  explained,  had  an  idea  that  a  cate* 
chism  was  something  good  to  eat. 

"Yes,  I'll  stop  at  the  store  and  get  one." 

They  went  into  Pendleton's  stores — a  general 
country  variety  store,  in  which  the  most  dis- 
similar articles  were  kept  for  sale. 

"Have  you  got  a  catechism?"  asked  the  dea- 
con, entering  with  Sam  at  his  side. 

"We've  got  just  one  left." 
'How  much  is  it?" 

"Ten  cents." 

"I'll  take  it." 

Sam  looked  on  with  interest  till  the  clerk 
produced  the  article;  then  his  countenance 
underwent  a  change. 

"Why,  it's  a  book,"  he  said. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  17 

"Of  course  it  is.  It  is  a  very  good  book,  from 
which  you  will  learn  all  about  your  duty,  and 
your  religious  obligations." 

"You  needn't  buy  it.  I  don't  want  it,"  said 
Sam. 

"Don't  want  the  catechism !"  said  the  deacon, 
not  without  anger. 

"No,  it  ain't  any  good." 

"My  boy,  I  know  better  what  is  good  for  you 
than  you  do.  I  shall  buy  you  the  catechism." 

"I'd  rather  you'd  get  me  that  book,"  said 
Sam,  pointing  to  a  thin  pamphlet  copy  of 
"Jack,  the  Giant-Killer." 

But  Deacon  Hopkins  persisted  in  making  the 
purchase  proposed. 

"Are  there  any  pictures  in  it?"  asked  Sam. 

"No." 

"Then  I  shan't  like  it." 

"You  don't  know  what  is  for  your  good.  I 
hope  you  will  be  wiser  in  time.  But  here  we 
are  at  the  house.  Come  right  in,  and  mind  you 
wipe  your  feet." 

This  was  Sam's  first  introduction  into  the 
Hopkins'  household.  He  proved  a  disturbing 
element,  as  we  shall  presently  see. 


18  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  HARD  CASE. 

The  first  meal  to  which  Sam  sat  down  at  tht 
deacon's  house  was  supper.  It  was  only  a  plain 
supper — tea,  bread  and  butter,  and  apple  pie— 
but  to  Sam,  who  was  not  used  to  regular  meala 
of  any  kind,  it  seemed  luxurious.  He  dis- 
patched slice  after  slice  of  bread ;  eating  twice 
as  much  as  any  one  else  at  the  table,  and  after 
eating  his  share  of  the  pie  gazed  hungrily  at 
the  single  slice  which  remained  on  the  plate, 
and  asked  for  that  also. 

Deacon  Hopkins  thought  it  was  time  to  in- 
terfere. 

"You've  had  one  piece  a'ready,"  he  said. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Sam;  "but  I'm  hungry." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  be.  You've  eat 
more  than  any  of  us." 


The    Young   Outlaw.  19 

"It  takes  a  good  deal  to  fill  me  up,"  said  Sam, 
frankly. 

"The  boy'll  eat  us  out  of  house  and  home," 
said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  in  alarm.  "You  can't  have 
any  more.   You've  had  enough." 

Sam  withdrew  his  plate.  He  did  not  look 
abashed,  for  he  was  never  much  inclined  that 
way,  nor  did  his  feelings  appear  to  be  hurt,  for 
he  was  not  sensitive;  but  he  took  the  matter 
coolly,  and,  pushing  back  his  chair  from  the 
table,  was  about  to  leave  the  room. 

"Where  are  you  a-goin'?"  asked  his  new 
guardian. 

"Outdoors." 

"Stop.  I've  got  something  for  you  to  do." 

The  deacon  went  to  the  mantel-piece  and 
took  therefrom  the  catechism. 

"You  ain't  had  no  bringing  up,  Samuel,"  he 
said.  "You  don't  know  nothin'  about  your 
moral  and  religious  obligations.  It's  my  dooty 
to  make  you  learn  how  to  walk  uprightly." 

"I  can  walk  straight  now,"  said  Sam. 

"I  don't  mean  that — I  mean  in  a  moral 
sense.   Come  here." 

Sam  unwillingly  drew  near  the  deacon. 


20  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Here,  I  want  you  to  study  the  first  page  o* 
the  catechism,  and  recite  it  to  me  before  you  go 
to  bed." 

Sam  took  the  book,  and  looked  at  the  first 
page  doubtfully. 

"What's  the  good  of  it?"  he  demanded,  in  a 
discontented  voice. 

"What's  the  good  of  the  catechism?"  ex- 
claimed the  deacon,  shocked.  "It'll  l'arn  you 
your  duties.  It'll  benefit  your  immortal  soul." 

"I  don't  care  if  it  will,"  said  Sam,  perversely. 
"What  do  I  care  about  my  soul  ?  It  never  did 
me  no  good." 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  heathen,  Martha?" 
said  the  deacon,  in  despair,  turning  to  his 
wife. 

"You'll  be  sorry  you  ever  took  him  in,"  said 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  shaking  her  head. 

"Set  down  in  the  corner,  and  l'arn  your  les- 
son, Samuel,"  said  the  old  man. 

Sam  looked  undecided  whether  to  obey  or 
not,  but,  under  the  circumstances,  he  thought 
it  best  to  obey.  He  began  to  read  the  catechism, 
but  it  did  not  interest  him.  His  eyes  were  not 
long  fixed  on  the  printed  page.    They  roved 


The   Young   Outlaw.  21 

abtmt  the  room,  following  the  movements  of 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  as  she  cleared  off  the  table.  He 
saw  her  take  the  pie,  and  place  it  in  the  closet. 
His  eyes  glistened  as  he  caught  sight  of  an  en- 
tire pie  on  the  lower  shelf,  designed,  doubt- 
less, for  the  next  day's  supper. 

"I  wish  I  had  it,"  he  thought  to  himself; 
"wouldn't  it  be  jolly?" 

Pretty  soon  the  deacon  took  his  hat  and  cane 
and  went  out.  Then  Mrs.  Hopkins  went  into 
the  next  room,  and  Sam  was  left  alone.  There 
was  a  fine  chance  to  escape,  and  Sam  was  not 
slow  in  availing  himself  of  it.  He  dropped  the 
catechism  on  the  floor,  seized  his  hat,  and 
darted  out  of  the  room,  finding  his  way  out  of 
the  house  through  the  front  door.  He  heaved  a 
sigh  of  relief  as  he  found  himself  in  the  open 
air.  Catching  sight  of  the  deacon  in  a  field  to 
the  right,  he  jumped  over  a  stone  wall  to  the 
left,  and  made  for  a  piece  of  woods  a  short  dis- 
tance away. 

It  was  not  Sam's  intention  to  run  away.  He 
felt  that  it  would  be  foolish  to  leave  a  home 
where  he  got  such  good  suppers,  but  he  wanted 
a  couple  of  hours  of  freedom.  He  did  not  mean 


22  The    Young   Outlaw. 

to  return  till  it  was  too  late  to  study  the  cate- 
chism any  longer. 

"What's  the  use  of  wearin'  out  a  feller's  eyea 
over  such  stuff?"  he  thought. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  follow  Sam's  move- 
ments through  the  evening.  At  nine  o'clock  he 
opened  the  front  door  and  went  in,  not  exactly 
abashed,  but  uncertain  how  the  deacon  would 
receive  him. 

Deacon  Hopkins  had  his  steel-bowed  spec- 
tacles on,  and  was  engaged  in  reading  a  good 
book.  He  looked  up  sternly  as  Sam  entered. 

"Samuel,  where  have  you  been?"  he  asked. 

"Out  in  the  woods,"  said  Sam,  coolly. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  get  your  catechism?" 
demanded  the  old  man,  sternly. 

"So  I  did,"  said  Sam,  without  blushing. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  telling  me  a  lie.  Mrs. 
Hopkins  said  she  went  out  of  the  room  a  min- 
ute, and  when  she  came  back  you  were  gone. 
Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  so,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  how  did  you  have  time  to  l'arn  yoar 
lesson?" 

"It  wasn't  long,"  muttered  Sam. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  23 

"Come  here,  and  I  will  see  if  you  know  any- 
thing about  it." 

The  deacon  took  the  book,  laid  it  flat  on  his 
lap,  and  read  out  the  first  question,  looking  in- 
quiringly at  Sam  for  the  answer. 

Sam  hesitated,  and  scratched  his  head-  "I 
give  it  up,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  askin'  conundrums?"  9Sid 
the  deacon,  sternly. 

"No,"  said  Sam,  honestly. 

"Why  don't  you  know?" 

"Because  I  can't  tell." 

"Because  you  didn't  study  it.  Ain't  you 
ashamed  of  your  ignorance?" 

"What's  the  use  of  knowin'?" 

"It  is  very  important,"  said  the  deacon,  im- 
pressively. "Now,  I  will  ask  you  the  ffext 
question." 

Sam  broke  down,  and  confessed  that  he 
didn't  know. 

"Then  you  told  me  a  lie.  You  said  you 
studied  the  lesson." 

"I  didn't  understand  it." 

"Then  you  should  have  studied  longer.  Poe't 
you  know  it  is  wicked  to  lie?" 


24  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"A  feller  can't  tell  the  truth  all  the  time,'1 
said.  Sam,  as  if  he  were  stating  a  well-known 
fact. 

"Certainly  he  can,"  said  the  deacon.  "I 
always  do." 

"Do  you?"  inquired  Sam,  regarding  the  old 
man  with  curiosity. 

"Of  course.  It  is  every  one's  duty  to  tell  the 
truth.  You  ought  to  die  rather  than  tell  a  lie. 
I  have  read  of  a  man  who  was  threatened  with 
death.  He  might  have  got  off  if  he  had  told  a 
lie.   But  he  wouldn't." 

"Did  he  get  killed?"  asked  Sam,  with  inter- 
est. 

"Yes." 

"Then  he  must  have  been  a  great  fool,"  said 
Sam,  contemptuously.  "You  wouldn't  catch 
me  makin'  such  a  fool  of  myself." 

"He  was  a  noble  man,"  said  the  deacon,  in- 
dignantly. "He  laid  down  his  life  for  the 
truth." 

"What  good  did  it  do?"  said  Sam. 

"I'm  afraid,  Samuel,  you  are  in  a  very  be- 
nighted condition.  You  appear  to  have  no  con- 
ception of  duty." 


The   Young  Outlaw,  2$ 

"I  guess  I  haven't,"  said  Sam.  "I  dunno 
what  they  are." 

"It  is  all  the  more  necessary  that  you  should 
study  your  catechism.  I  shall  expect  you  to  get 
the  same  lesson  to-morrow  evenin'.  It's  too  late 
to  study  now." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Sam,  with  alacrity. 

"I  will  show  you  where  you  are  to  sleep.  You 
must  get  up  early  to  go  to  work.  I  will  come 
and  wake  you  up." 

Sam  was  not  overjoyed  at  this  announce- 
ment. It  did  not  strike  him  that  he  should  en- 
joy going  to  work  early  in  the  morning.  How- 
ever, he  felt  instinctively  that  it  would  do  no 
good  to  argue  the  matter  at  present,  and  he  fol- 
lowed the  deacon  upstairs  in  silence.  He  was 
ushered  into  a  small  room  partitioned  off  from 
the  attic. 

"You'll  sleep  there,"  said  the  deacon,  point- 
ing to  a  cot  bed  in  the  corner.  "I'll  call  you  at 
five  o'clock  to-morrow  mornin'." 

Sam  undressed  himself  and  got  into  bed. 

"This  is  jolly,"  thought  he ;  "a  good  deal  bet* 
ter  than  at  home.  If  it  warn't  for  that  plaguey 


26  The   Young   Outlaw. 

catechism  I'd  like  livin'  here  fust-rate.  I  wish 
I  had  another  piece  of  that  pie." 

In  ten  minutes  Sam  was  fast  asleep ;  but  the 
deacon  was  not  so  fortunate.  He  lay  awake 
a  long  time,  pondering  in  perplexity  what  he 
should  do  to  reform  the  young  outlaw  of  whom 
he  had  taken  charge. 

"He's  a  cur'us  boy,"  thought  the  good  man. 
"Seems  to  have  no  more  notion  of  religion  than 
a  Choctaw  or  a  Hottentot.  An'  yet  he's  been 
livin'  in  a  Christian  community  all  his  life.  I'm 
afeerd  he  takes  after  his  father." 


The   Young   Outlaw,  27 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SAM  FRIGHTENS  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

Sam  usually  slept  the  whole  night  through; 
but  to-night  was  an  exception.  It  might  have 
been  because  he  was  in  a  strange  bed,  and  in  a 
strange  house.  At  any  rate,  he  woke  in  time 
to  hear  the  clock  on  the  church,  of  which  his 
guardian  was  deacon,  strike  two. 

"Where  am  I  ?"  was  his  first  thought. 

He  remembered  almost  immediately,  and  the 
thought  made  him  wide-awake.  He  ought  not 
to  have  been  hungry  at  that  hour,  and,  in  fact, 
he  was  not,  but  the  thought  of  the  pie  forced 
itself  upon  his  mind,  and  he  felt  a  longing  for 
the  slice  that  was  left  over  from  supper.  Quick 
upon  this  thought  came  another,  "Why  couldn't 
he  creep  downstairs,  softly,  and  get  it?  The 
deacon  and  his  wife  were  fast  asleep.  Who 
would  find  him  out?" 


28  The   Young   Outlaw. 

A  boy  better  brought  up  than  Sam  might 
have  reflected  that  it  was  wrong;  but,  as  the 
deacon  said,  Sam  had  no  "conceptions  of 
duty,"  or,  more  properly,  his  conscience  was 
not  very  active.  He  got  out  of  bed,  slipped  on 
his  stockings,  and  crept  softly  downstairs,  feel- 
ing his  way.  It  was  very  dark,  for  the  entries 
were  unlighted,  but  finally  he  reached  the 
kitchen  without  creating  any  alarm. 

Now  for  the  closet.  It  was  not  locked,  and 
Sam  opened  the  door  without  difficulty. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  match,  so's  to  see  where  the 
pie  is,"  he  thought. 

He  felt  around,  but  the  pie  must  have  been 
placed  elsewhere,  for  he  could  not  find  it.  It 
had  reaHy  been  placed  on  the  highest  shelf, 
which  Sam  had  not  as  yet  explored.  But  there 
was  danger  in  feeling  around  in  the  dark.  Our 
hero  managed  to  dislodge  a  pile  of  plates 
which  fell  with  a  crash  upon  his  feet.  There 
was  a  loud  crash  of  broken  crockery,  and 
the  noise  was  increased  by  the  howls  of  Sam^ 
who  danced  up  and  down  with  pain. 

The  noise  reached  the  chamber  where  the 
deacon   and   his  wifp  were  calmly  reposing. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  29 

Mrs.  Hopkins  was  a  light  sleeper,  and  was 
awakened  at  once. 

She  was  startled  and  terrified,  and,  sitting 
up  in  bed,  shook  her  husband  violently  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Deacon — Deacon  Hopkins !"  she  exclaimed 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  deacon* 
drowsily. 

"Matter  enough!  There's  robbers  down 
Itairs !" 

Now  the  deacon  was  wide-awake. 

"Kobbers!"  he  exclaimed.  "Pooh!  Non- 
sense !  You're  dreamin',  wife." 

Just  then  there  was  another  racket.  Sam,  in 
trying  to  effect  his  escape,  tumbled  over  a 
chair,  and  there  was  a  yell  of  pain. 

"Am  I  dreaming  now,  deacon?"  demanded 
his  wife,  triumphantly. 

"You're  right,  wife,"  said  the  deacon,  turn- 
ing pale,  and  trembling.  "It's  an  awful  situa- 
tion. What  shall  we  do?" 

"Do?  Go  downstairs,  and  confront  the  vil- 
lains !"  returned  his  wife,  energetically. 

"Tbey  might  shoot  me,"  said  her  husband, 


2-0  The    Young   Outlaw. 

panic-stricken.  "They're — they're  said  to  be 
very  desperate  fellows." 

"Are  you  a  man,  and  won't  defend  your 
property?"  exclaimed  his  wife,  taunting  him. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  go  down?" 

"Perhaps  you'd  better,"  said  the  deacon,  ac- 
cepting the  suggestion  with  alacrity. 

"What !"  shrieked  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "You  are 
willing  they  should  shoot  me?" 

"They  wouldn't  shoot  a  woman,"  said  the 
deacon. 

But  his  wife  was  not  appeased. 

Just  then  the  unlucky  Sam  trod  on  the  tail 
of  the  cat,  who  was  quietly  sleeping  on  the 
hearth.  With  the  instinct  of  self-defense,  she 
scratched  his  leg,  which  was  undefended  by 
the  customary  clothing,  and  our  hero,  who  did 
not  feel  at  all  heroic  in  the  dark,  not  knowing 
what  had  got  hold  of  him,  roared  with  pain  and 
fright. 

"This  is  terrible !"  gasped  the  deacon.  "Mar- 
tha, is  the  door  locked?" 

"No." 

"Then  I'll  get  up  and  lock  it.  Ohf  Lord,  what 
will  become  of  us?" 


The    Young    Outlaw.  31 

Sam  was  now  ascending  the  stairs,  and, 
though  he  tried  to  walk  softly,  the  stairs 
creaked  beneath  his  weight. 

"They're  comin'  upstairs,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Hopkins.  "Lock  the  door  quick,  deacon,  or  we 
shall  be  murdered  in  our  bed." 

The  deacon  reached  the  door  in  less  time 
than  he  would  have  accomplished  the  same 
feat  in  the  daytime,  and  hurriedly  locked  it. 

"It's  locked,  Martha,"  he  said,  "but  they  may 
break  it  down." 

"Or  fire  through  the  door " 

"Let's  hide  under  the  bed,"  suggested  the 
heroic  deacon. 

"Don't  speak  so  loud.  They'll  hear.  I  wish 
it  was  morninV 

^The  deacon  stood  at  the  door  listening,  and 
made  a  discovery. 

"They're  goin'  up  into  the  garret,"  he  an- 
nounced.  "That's  strange " 

"What  do  they  want  up  there,  I  wonder?" 

"They  can't  think  we've  got  anything  valu- 
able up  there." 

"Deacon,"  burst  out  Mrs.  Hopkins,  with  a 
sudden  idea,  "I  believe  we've  been  fooled." 


32  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Fooled!  What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  believe  it  isn't  robbers." 

"Not  robbers?  Why,  you  told  me  it  was," 
said  her  husband,  bewildered. 

"I  believe  it's  that  boy !" 

"What— Sam?" 

"Yes." 

"What  would  he  want  downstairs?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  it's  him,  I'll  be  bound. 
Light  the  lamp,  deacon,  and  go  up  and  see." 

"But  it  might  be  robbers,"  objected  the  dea- 
t*on,  in  alarm.  "They  might  get  hold  of  me,  and 
kill  me." 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  such  a  coward,  Mr. 
Hopkins,"  said  his  wife,  contemptuously. 
When  she  indulged  in  severe  sarcasm,  she  was 
accustomed  to  omit  her  husband's  title. 

"I  ain't  no  coward,  but  I  don't  want  to  risk 
my  life.  It's  clear  flyin'  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence. You'd  ought  to  see  that  it  is,  Martha," 
said  the  deacon,  reproachfully. 

"I  don't  see  it.  I  see  that  you  are  frightened, 
that's  what  I  see.  Light  the  lamp,  and  I'll  go 
up  myself." 


The    Young   Outlaw.  33 

"Well,  Martha,  it's  better  for  you  to  go. 
They  won't  touch  a  woman." 

He  lighted  the  lamp,  and  his  wife  departed 
on  her  errand.  It  might  have  been  an  uncon- 
scious action  on  the  part  of  the  deacon,  but 
he  locked  the  door  after  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  proceeded  to  the  door  of  Sam's 
bed-chamber,  and,  as  the  door  was  unfastened, 
she  entered.  Of  course,  he  was  still  awake,  but 
he  pretended  to  be  asleep. 

"Sam !"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

There  was  a  counterfeited  snore. 

"Sam— say!" 

Sam  took  no  notice. 

The  lady  took  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  shoofe 
him  with  no  gentle  hand,  so  that  our  hero  was 
compelled  to  rouse  himself. 

"What's  up?"  he  asked,  rubbing  his  eyes  in 
apparent  surprise. 

"I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  shortly,  "and  you 
have  been." 

"I!"  protested  Sam,  innocently.  "Why,  I 
Was  sound  asleep  when  you  came  in.  I  don't 
know  what's  been  goin'  on.  Is  it  time  to  get 
up?" 


34  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  downstairs?* 
demanded  Mrs.  Hopkins,  sternly. 

"Who  says  I've  been  downstairs?"  asked 
Sam, 

"I'm  sure  you  have.   I  heard  you." 

"It  must  have  been  somebody  else." 

"There  is  no  one  else  to  go  down.  Neither  the 
deacon  nor  myself  have  been  down." 

"Likely  it's  thieves." 

But  Mrs.  Hopkins  felt  convinced,  from 
Sam's  manner,  that  he  was  the  offender,  and 
she  determined  to  make  him  confess  it. 

"Get  up,"  she  said,  "and  go  down  with  me." 

*Tm  sleepy,"  objected  Sam. 

"So  am  I,  but  I  mean  to  find  out  all  about 
this  matter." 

Sam  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  unwillingly  ac- 
companied Mrs.  Hopkins  downstairs.  The  lat- 
ter stopped  at  her  chamber  door  and  tried  to 
open  it. 

"Who's  there?"  asked  the  deacon,  tremu- 
lously. 

"I  am,"  said  his  wife,  emphatically. 

"So  you  locked  the  door  on  your  wife;  did 


The    Young   Outlaw.  35 

you,  because  you  thought  there  was  danger.  It 
does  you  great  credit,  upon  my  word." 

"What  have  you  found  out?"  asked  her  hus- 
band, evading  the  reproach.  "Was  it  Sam  that 
made  all  the  noise?" 

"How  could  I,"  said  Sam,  "when  I  was  fast 
asleep?" 

"I'm  going  to  take  him  down  with  me  to  see 
what  mischief's  done,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "Do 
you  want  to  go,  too?" 

The  deacon,  after  a  little  hesitation,  followed 
liis  more  courageous  spouse — at  a  safe  dis- 
tance, however — and  the  three  entered  the 
kitchen,  which  had  been  the  scene  of  Sam's 
noisy  exploits.  It  showed  traces  of  his  pres- 
ence in  an  overturned  chair.  Moreover,  the 
closet-door  was  wide  open,  and  broken  pieces 
of  crockery  were  scattered  over  the  floor. 

A  light  dawned  upon  Mrs.  Hopkins.  She  had 
solved  the  mystery ! 


The   Young   Outlaw, 


CHAPTER  V. 

SAM  COMBINES  BUSINESS  WITH  PLEASURE. 

"You  came  down  after  that  pie,"  she  said,, 
turning  upon  Sam. 

"What  pie?"  asked  Sam,  looking  guilty,  how- 
ever. 

'•Don't  ask  me.  You  know  well  enough.  You 
couldn't  find  it  in  the  dark,  and  that's  the  way 
you  came  to  make  such  a  noise.  Ten  of  my  nice 
plates  broken,  too!  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
Deacon  Hopkins?" 

"Samuel !"  said  the  deacon,  "did  you  do  this 
wicked  thing?" 

A  moment's  reflection  convinced  Sam  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  deny  it  longer.  The  proofs 
of  his  guilt  were  too  strong.  He  might  have 
pleaded  in  his  defense  "emotional  insanity," 
but  he  was  not  familiar  with  the  course  of  jus* 
tice.  He  was,  however,  fertile  in  expedients, 
and  thought  of  the  next  best  thing. 

"Mebbe  I  walked  in  my  sleep,"  he  admitted. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  37 

"Did  you  ever  walk  in  your  sleep?"  asked 
the  deacon,  hastily. 

"Lots  of  times,"  said  Sam. 

"It  is  rather  strange  that  you  should  go  to 
the  closet  in  your  sleep,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins, 
suspiciously.  "I  suppose,  if  you'd  found  it, 
you'd  have  eaten  it  in  your  sleep." 

"Likely  I  should,"  said  Sam.  "I  was  dreamin' 
of  the  pie.  You  know  how  to  make  pie,  Mrs. 
Hopkins;  I  never  tasted  so  good  before.  " 

Mrs.  Hopkins  was  not  a  soft  woman,  but  she 
was  proud  of  her  cooking,  and  accessible  to  flat- 
tery on  that  subject.  Sam  could  not  have  de- 
fended himself  better. 

"That  may  be,"  she  said,  "about  your  walk- 
ing in  your  sleep;  but  once  is  enough.  Here- 
after I'll  lock  your  door  on  the  outside.  I  can't 
be  waked  up  every  night,  nor  I  can't  have  my 
plates  broken." 

"S'pose  the  house  should  catch  fire,"  sug- 
gested Sam,  who  didn't  fancy  being  locked  up 
in  his  room. 

"If  it  does,  I'll  come  and  let  you  out.  The 
house  is  safer  when  you're  safe  in  bed." 

"My  wife  is  right,  Samuel,"  said  the  deacon, 


38  The   Young   Outlaw. 

recovering  his  dignity  now  that  his  fears  were 
removed.  "You  must  be  locked  in  after  to- 
night." 

Sam  did  not  reply.  On  the  whole,  he  felt  glad 
to  get  off  so  well,  after  alarming  the  house  so 
seriously. 

"Do  you  mean  to  stay  downstairs  all  night, 
Deacon  Hopkins?"  demanded  his  wife,  with 
uncalled-for  asperity.  "If  so,  I  shall  leave  you 
to  yourself." 

"I'm  ready  to  go  up  when  you  are,"  said  her 
husband.  "I  thought  you  mightn't  feel  like 
stayin'  down  here  alone." 

"Much  protection  you'd  be  in  time  of  danger, 
Mr.  Hopkins — you  that  locked  the  door  on  your 
wife,  because  you  was  afraid !" 

"I  wasn't  thinkin',"  stammered  the  deacon. 

"Probably  not,"  said  his  wife,  in  an  incredu- 
lous tone.  "Now  go  up.  It's  high  time  we  were 
all  in  bed  again." 

Sam  was  not  called  at  as  early  an  hour  aa 
the  deacon  intended.  The  worthy  man,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  slumbers  being  interrupted, 
overslept  himself,  and  it  was  seven  o'clock 
when  he  called  Sam. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  39 

"Get  up,  Samuel/'  he  said;  "it's  dreadful 
kite,  and  you  must  be  spry,  or  you  won't  catch 
up  with  the  work." 

Work,  however,  was  not  prominent  in  Sam'a 
mind,  as  his  answer  showed. 

"Is  breakfast  ready?"  he  asked,  rubbing  his 
eyes. 

"It's  most  ready.  Get  right  up,  for  it's  time 
to  go  to  work." 

"I  s'pose  we'll  have  breakfast  first,"  said 
Sam. 

"If  it's  ready." 

Under  the  circumstances  Sam  did  not  hurry. 
He  did  not  care  to  work  before  breakfast,  nor, 
for  that  matter,  afterward,  if  he  could  help  it. 
So  he  made  a  leisurely,  though  not  an  elaborate 
toilet,  and  did  not  come  downstairs  till  Mrs. 
Hopkins  called,  sharply,  up  the  attic  stairs : 

"Come  down,  you  Sam !" 

"All  right,  ma'am,  I'm  comin',"  said  Sam, 
who  judged  rightly  that  breakfast  was  ready. 

"We  shan't  often  let  you  sleep  so  late,"  said 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  who  sat  behind  the  waiter.  "We 
were  broken  of  our  rest  through  your  cutting 
up  last  night,  so  we  overslept  ourselves." 


4-0  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"It's  pretty  early,"  said  Sam. 

"We'd  ought  to  have  been  at  work  in  the 
field  an  hour  ago,"  said  the  deacon. 

At  the  table  Sam  found  work  that  suited  him 
better. 

"You've  got  a  good  appetite,"  said  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins, as  Sam  took  the  seventh  slice  of  bread. 

"I  most  generally  have,"  said  Sam,  with  his 
mouth  full. 

"That's  encouraging,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  dryly. 

There  was  no  pie  on  the  table,  as  Sam  no* 
ticed,  to  his  regret.  However,  he  was  pretty 
full  when  he  rose  from  the  table. 

"Now,  Samuel,  you  may  come  along  with 
me,"  said  the  deacon,  putting  on  his  hat. 

Sam  followed  him  out  to  the  barn,  where,  in 
one  corner,  were  kept  the  hoes,  rakes,  and  other 
farming  implements. 

"Here's  a  hoe  for  you,"  said  the  deacon. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?"  asked  Sam. 

"The  potatoes  need  hoeing.  Did  you  ever 
hoe  potatoes?"  f 

"No." 

"You'll  l'arn.  It  ain't  hard." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  411 

The  field  was  some  little  distance  from  the 
house — a  two-acre  lot  wholly  devoted  to  pota- 
toes. 

"I  guess  we'll  begin  at  the  further  corner," 
said  the  deacon.   "Come  along." 

When  they  reached  the  part  of  the  field 
specified,  the  deacon  stopped. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "just  see  how  I  do  it ;"  and 
he  carefully  hoed  around  one  of  the  hills. 

"There,  you  see  it's  easy." 

"I  guess  I  can  do  it.  Are  you  goin'  to  stay 
here?" 

"No,  I've  got  to  go  to  the  village,  to  the  black- 
smith's. I'll  be  back  in  about  two  hours.  Jest 
hoe  right  along  that  row,  and  then  come  back 
again  on  the  next.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"I  want  you  to  work  as  spry  as  you  can,  so'si 
to  make  up  for  lost  time." 

"What  time  do  you  have  dinner?"  asked  our 
hero. 

"You  ain't  hungry  so  quick,  be  you?" 

"No,  but  I  shall  be  bimeby.  I  thought  I'd  like 
to  know  when  to  quit  work  and  go  to  dinner." 


42  The    Young   Outlaw. 

''I'll  be  back  before  that.  You  needn't  worry 
about  that." 

The  deacon  turned  and  directed  his  steps 
homeward. 

As  long  as  he  was  in  sight  Sam  worked  with 
tolerable  speed.  But  when  the  tall  stooping 
figure  had  disappeared  from  view  he  rested, 
and  looked  around  him. 

"It'll  be  a  sight  of  work  to  hoe  all  them  pota- 
toes," he  said  to  himself.  "I  wonder  if  the  old 
man  expects  me  to  do  the  whole?  It'll  be  a 
tough  job." 

Sam  leisurely  hoed  another  hill. 

"It's  gettin'  hot,"  he  said.  "Why  don't  they 
have  trees  to  give  shade?  Then  it  would  be 
more  comfortable." 

He  hoed  another  hill,  taking  a  little  longer 
time. 

"I  guess  there  must  be  a  million  bills,"  he  re- 
flected, looking  around  him,  thoughtfully.  "It'll 
take  me  from  now  till  next  winter  to  hoe  'em 
all." 

At  the  rate  Sam  was  working,  his  calculation 
of  the  time  it  would  take  him  was  not  far  out, 
probably. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  43 

He  finished  another  hill. 

Just  then  a  cat,  out  on  a  morning  walk, 
c&anced  to  pass  through  the  field  a  few  rods 
away.  Now,  Sam  could  never  see  a  cat  without 
wanting  to  chase  it — a  fact  which  would  have 
led  the  cat,  had  she  been  aware  of  it,  to  give 
him  a  wide  berth.  But,  unluckily,  Sam  saw  her. 

"Seat !"  he  exclaimed,  and,  grasping  his  hoe, 
he  ran  after  puss. 

The  cat  took  alarm,  and,  climbing  the  wall 
which  separated  the  potato  field  from  the  next, 
sped  over  it  in  terror.  Sam  followed  with 
whoops  and  yells,  which  served  to  accelerate 
her  speed.  Occasionally  he  picked  up  a  stone, 
and  threw  it  at  her,  and  once  he  threw  the  hoe 
in  the  excitement  of  his  chase.  But  four  legs 
proved  more  than  a  match  for  two,  and  finally 
he  was  obliged  to  give  it  up,  but  not  till  he  had 
run  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  He  sat 
down  to  rest  on  a  rock,  and  soon  another  boy 
came  up,  with  a  fishing  pole  over  his  shoulder 

"What  are  you  doing,  Sam?"  he  asked. 

"I've  been  chasm'  a  cat,"  said  Sam. 

"Didn't  catch  her,  did  you?" 

"No,  hang  it  ir> 


44  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Where'd  you  get  that  hoe?" 

"I'm  to  work  for  Deacon  Hopkins.  He's  took 
me.  Where  are  you  goin'?" 

"A-fishing." 

"I  wish  I  could  go,  too." 

"So  do  I.  I'd  like  company." 

"Where  are  you  goin'  to  fish?" 

"In  a  brook  close  by,  down  at  the  bottom  of 
this  field." 

"I'll  go  and  look  on  a  minute  or  two.  I  guess 
there  isn't  any  hurry  about  them  potatoes." 

The  minute  or  two  lengthened  to  an  hour  and 
a  half,  when  Sam  roused  himself  from  his  idle 
mood,  and,  shouldering  his  hoe,  started  for  the 
field  where  he  had  been  set  to  work. 

It  was  full  time.  The  deacon  was  there  be- 
fore him,  surveying  with  angry  look  the  half- 
dozen  hills,  which  were  all  that  his  young 
assistant  had  thus  far  hoed. 

"Now  there'll  be  a  fuss,"  thought  Sam,  and 
he  was  not  far  out  in  that  calculation. 


The   Young   Outlaw,  45 


CHAPTER  VI. 

sam's  sudden  sickness. 

"Where  have  you  been,  you  young  scamp?" 
demanded  the  deacon,  wrathfully. 

"I  just  went  away  a  minute  or  two,"  said 
Sam,  abashed. 

"A  minute  or  two !"  ejaculated  the  deacon. 

"It  may  have  been  more,"  said  Sam.  "You 
see  I  ain't  got  no  watch  to  tell  time  by." 

"How  comes  it  that  you  have  only  got 
through  six  hills  all  the  morning?"  said  the 
deacon,  sternly. 

"Well,  you  see,  a  cat  came  along "  Sam 

began  to  explain. 

"What  if  she  did?"  interrupted  the  deacon. 
"She  didn't  stop  your  work,  did  she?" 

"Why,  I  thought  I'd  chase  her  out  of  the 
field." 

"What  for?" 


46  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"I  thought  she  might  scratch  up  some  of  the 
potatoes,"  said  Sam,  a  brilliant  excuse  dawn- 
ing upon  him. 

'How  long  did  it  take  you  to  chase  her  out 
of  the  field,  where  she  wasn't  doing  any  harm?" 

"I  was  afraid  she'd  come  back,  so  I  chased 
her  a  good  ways." 

"Did  you  catch  her?" 

"No,  but  I  drove  her  away.  I  guess  she  won't 
come  round  here  again,"  said  Sam,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  had  performed  a  virtuous  action. 

"Did  you  come  right  back?" 

"I  sat  down  to  rest.  You  see,  I  was  pretty 
tired  with  running  so  fast." 

"If  you  didn't  run  any  faster  than  you  have 
worked,  a  snail  would  catch  you  in  a  half  a 
minute,"  said  the  old  man,  with  justifiable  sar- 
casm. "Samuel,  your  excuse  is  good  for  noth- 
ing. I  must  punish  you." 

Sam  stood  on  his  guard,  prepared  to  run  if 
the  deacon  should  make  hostile  demonstration. 
But  his  guardian  was  not  a  man  of  violence, 
and  did  not  propose  to  inflict  blows.  He  had 
another  punishment  in  view  suited  to  Sam's 
particular  case. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  47 

"I'll  go  right  to  work,"  said  Sam,  seeing  that 
no  violence  was  intended,  and  hoping  to  escape 
the  punishment  threatened,  whatever  it  might 
be. 

"You'd  better,"  said  the  deacon. 

Our  hero — I  am  afraid  he  has  not  manifested 
any  heroic  qualities  as  yet — went  to  work  with 
remarkable  energy,  to  the  imminent  danger  of 
the  potato  tops,  which  he  came  near  uprooting 
in  several  instances. 

"Is  this  fast  enough?"  he  asked. 

"It'll  do.  I'll  take  the  next  row,  and  we'll 
work  along  together.  Take  care — I  don't  want 
the  potatoes  dug  up." 

They  kept  it  up  for  an  hour  or  so,  Sam  work- 
ing more  steadily,  probably,  than  he  had  ever 
done  before  in  his  life.  He  began  to  think  it 
was  no  joke,  as  he  walked  from  hill  to  hill, 
keeping  up  with  the  deacon's  steady  progress. 

"There  ain't  much  fun  in  this,"  he  thought, 
"I  don't  like  workin'  on  a  farm.  It's  awful  tire- 
some." 

"What's  the  use  of  hoein'  potatoes?"  he 
asked,  after  a  while.  "Won't  they  grow  just  as 
well  without  it?" 


48  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"No,"  said  the  deacon. 

UI  don't  see  why  not." 

"They  need  to  have  the  earth  loosened 
around  them,  and  heaped  up  where  it's  fallen 
away." 

"It's  lots  of  trouble,"  said  Sam. 

"We  must  all  work,"  said  the  deacon,  sen- 
tentiously. 

"I  wish  potatoes  growed  on  trees  like 
apples,"  said  Sam.  "They  wouldn't  be  no 
trouble  then." 

"You  mustn't  question  the  Almighty's 
doin's,  Samuel,"  said  the  deacon,  seriously. 
"Whatever  he  does  is  right." 

"I  was  only  wonderin',  that  was  all,"  said 
Sam. 

"Human  wisdom  is  prone  to  err,"  said  the 
old  man,  indulging  in  a  scrap  of  proverbial 
philosophy. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  thought  Sam, 
carelessly  hitting  the  deacon's  foot  with  his 
descending  hoe.  Unfortunately,  the  deacon 
had  corns  on  that  foot,  and  the  blow  cost  him 
a  sharp  twinge. 

"You  careless  blockhead !"  he  shrieked,  rai» 


The    Young   Outlaw.  49 

ing  the  injured  foot  from  the  ground,  while  a 
spasm  of  anguish  contracted  his  features. 
"Did  you  take  my  foot  for  a  potato  hill?" 

"Did  I  hurt  you?"  asked  Sam,  innocently. 

"You  hurt  me  like  thunder!"  gasped  the 
deacon,  using,  in  his  excitement,  words  which 
in  calmer  moments  he  would  have  avoided. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  your  foot,"  said  Sam. 

"I  hope  you'll  be  more  careful  next  time; 
you  most  killed  me." 

"I  will,"  said  Sam. 

"I  wonder  if  it  isn't  time  for  dinner,"  he 
began  to  think  presently,  but,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, thought  it  best  not  to  refer  to  the 
matter.  But,  at  last,  the  welcome  sound  of 
the  dinner  bell  was  heard,  as  it  was  vigor- 
ously rung  at  the  back  door  by  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"That's  for  dinner,  Samuel,"  said  the  dea- 
con.   "We  will  go  to  the  house." 

"All  right !"  said  Sam,  with  alacrity,  throw- 
ing down  the  hoe  in  the  furrow. 

"Pick  up  that  hoe  and  carry  it  with  you," 
said  the  deacon. 

"Then  we  won't  work  here  any  more  to* 
day !"  said  Sam,  brightening  up. 


50  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Yes,  we  will;  but  it's  no  way  to  leave  the 
hoe  in  the  fields.  Some  cat  might  come  along 
and  steal  it,"  he  added,  with  unwonted  sar- 
casm. 

Sam  laughed,  as  he  thought  of  the  idea  of  a 
cat  stealing  a  hoe,  and  the  deacon  smiled  at 
his  own  joke. 

Dinner  was  on  the  table.  It  was  the  fashion 
there  to  put  all  on  at  once,  and  Sam,  to  his 
great  satisfaction,  saw  on  one  side  a  pie  like 
that  which  had  tempted  him  the  night  before. 
The  deacon  saw  his  look,  and  it  suggested  a 
fitting  punishment.  But  the  time  was  not 
yet. 

Sam  did  ample  justice  to  the  first  course  of 
meat  and  potatoes.  When  that  was  dispatched 
Mrs.  Hopkins  began  to  cut  the  pie. 

The  deacon  cleared  his  throat. 

"Samuel  is  to  have  no  pie,  Martha,"  he 
said. 

His  wife  thought  it  was  for  his  misdeeds 
of  the  night  before,  and  so  did  Sam. 

"I  couldn't  help  walkin'  in  my  sleep,"  he 
said,  with  a  blank  look  of  disappointment, 

"It  ain't  that,"  said  the  deacon. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  51 

"What  is  it,  then?"  asked  his  wife. 

"Samuel  ran  away  from  his  work  this 
mornin',  and  was  gone  nigh  on  to  two  hours," 
said  her  husband. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Deacon  Hopkins," 
said  his  wife,  emphatically.  "He  don't  deserve 
any  dinner  at  all." 

"Can't  I  have  some  pie?"  asked  Sam,  who 
could  not  bear  to  lose  so  tempting  a  portion 
of  the  repast. 

"No,  Samuel.  What  I  say  I  mean.  He  that 
will  not  work  shall  not  eat." 

"I  worked  hard  enough  afterward,"  mut- 
tered Sam. 

"After  I  came  back — yes,  I  know  that.  You 
worked  well  part  of  the  time,  so  I  gave  you 
part  of  your  dinner.  Next  time  let  the  cats 
alone." 

"Can  I  have  some  more  meat,  then?"  asked 
Sam. 

"Ye-es,"  said  the  deacon,  hesitating.  "You 
need  strength  to  work  this  afternoon." 

"S'pose  I  get  that  catechism  this  afternoon 
instead  of  goin'  to  work,"  suggested  Sam. 

"That  will  do  after  supper,   Samuel.    All 


52  The    Young   Outlaw. 

things  in  their  place.  The  afternoon  is  for 
work;  the  evening  for  reading  and  study,  and 
improvin'  the  mind." 

Sam  reflected  that  the  deacon  was  a  very 
obstinate  man,  and  decided  that  his  arrange- 
ments were  very  foolish.  What  was  the  use 
of  living  if  you'd  got  to  work  all  the  time? 
A  good  many  people,  older  than  Sam,  are  of 
the  same  opinion,  and  it  is  not  wholly  without 
reason;  but  then,  it  should  be  borne  in  mind 
that  Sam  was  opposed  to  all  work.  He  be- 
lieved in  enjoying  himself,  and  the  work 
might  take  care  of  itself.  But  how  could  it  be 
avoided? 

As  Sam  was  reflecting,  a  way  opened  itself. 
He  placed  his  hand  on  his  stomach,  and  be- 
gan to  roll  his  eyes,  groaning  meanwhile. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"I  feel  sick,"  said  Sam,  screwing  up  his 
face  into  strange  contortions. 

"It's  very  sudden,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  sus- 
piciously. 

"So  'tis,"  said  Sam.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  going 
to  be  very  sick.  Can  I  lay  down?" 


The    Young   Outlaw.  53 

"What  do  you  think  it  is,  Martha?"  asked 
the  deacon,  looking  disturbed. 

"I  know  what  it  is,"  said  his  wife,  calmly. 
"I've  treated  such  attacks  before.  Yes,  you 
may  lie  down  in  your  room,  and  I'll  bring  you 
some  tea,  as  soon  as  I  can  make  it" 

"All  right,"  said  Sam,  elated  at  the  success 
of  his  little  trick.  It  was  very  much  pleas- 
anter  to  lie  down  than  to  hoe  potatoes  on  a 
hot  day. 

"How  easy  I  took  in  the  old  woman!"  he 
thought. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  changed  his  mind. 
as  we  shall  see  in  the  next  chapter. 


54  The   Young   Outlaw* 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SAM  MEETS  HIS  MATCH. 

Sam  went  upstairs  with  alacrity,  and  lay 
down  on  the  bed — not  that  he  was  particu- 
larly tired,  but  because  he  found  it  more 
agreeable  to  lie  down  than  to  work  in  the  field. 

"I  wish  I  had  something  to  read,"  he 
thought;  "some  nice  dime  novel  like  'The  De- 
mon of  the  Danube.'  That  was  splendid.  I 
like  it  a  good  deal  better  than  Dickens.  It's 
more  excitin'." 

But  there  was  no  library  in  Sam's  room, 
and  it  was  very  doubtful  whether  there  were 
any  dime  novels  in  the  house.  The  deacon  be- 
longed to  the  old  school  of  moralists,  and 
looked  with  suspicion  upon  all  works  of  fic- 
tion, with  a  very  few  exceptions,  such  as  "Pil- 
grim's Progress"  and  "Robinson  Crusoe," 
which,  however,  he  supposed  to  be  true  stories. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  55 

Soon  Sam  heard  the  step  of  Mrs.  Hopkins 
en  the  stairs.  He  immediately  began  to  twist 
his  features  in  such  a  way  as  to  express  pain* 

Mrs.  Hopkins  entered  the  room  with  a  cup 
of  hot  liquid  in  her  hand. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  she  asked. 

"I  feel  bad,"  said  Sam. 

"Are  you  in  pain?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  a  good  deal  of  pain !" 

"Whereabouts?" 

Sam  placed  his  hand  on  his  stomach,  and 
looked  sad. 

"Yes,  I  know  exactly  what  is  the  matter 
with  you,"  said  the  deacon's  wife. 

"Then  you  know  a  good  deal,"  thought 
Sam,  "for  I  don't  know  of  anything  at  all  my- 
self." 

This  was  what  he  thought,  but  he  said,  "Do 
you?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  experi- 
ence.  I  know  what  is  good  for  you." 

Sam  looked  curiously  at  the  cup. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"It's  hot  tea;  it's  very  healin'." 

Sam  supposed  it  to  be  ordinary  tea,  and 


56  The    Young    Outlaw. 

he  had  no  objection  to  take  it.  But  when  he 
put  it  to  his  lips  there  was  something  about 
the  odor  that  did  not  please  him. 

"It  doesn't  smell  good,"  he  said,  looking  up 
in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"Medicine  generally  doesn't,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

"I  thought  it  was  tea,"  said  Sam. 

"So  it  is;  it  is  wormwood  tea." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  like  it,"  hesitated 
Sam. 

"No  matter  if  you  don't,  it  will  do  you 
good,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

Sam  tasted  it,  and  his  face  assumed  an  ex- 
pression of  disgust. 

"I  can't  drink  it,"  he  said. 

"You  must,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  firmly. 

"I  guess  I'll  get  well  without,"  said  our 
hero,  feeling  that  he  was  in  a  scrape. 

"No,  you  won't.  You're  quite  unwell.  I 
can  see  it  by  your  face." 

"Can  you?"  said  Sam,  beginning  to  be 
alarmed  about  his  health. 

"You  must  take  this  tea,"  said  the  lady, 
firmly. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  57 

"I'd  rather  not." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  deacon 
needs  you  well,  so  you  can  go  to  work,  and 
this  will  cure  you  as  quick  as  anything." 

"Suppose  it  doesn't?"  said  Sam. 

"Then  I  shall  bring  you  up  some  castor  oil 
in  two  hours." 

Castor  oil!  This  was  even  worse  than 
wormwood  tea,  and  Sam's  heart  sank  within 
him. 

"The  old  woman's  too  much  for  me," 
he  thought,  with  a  sigh. 

"Come,  take  the  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins. 
"I  can't  wait  here  all  day." 

Thus  adjured,  Sam  made  a  virtue  of  neces- 
sity, and,  shutting  his  eyes,  gulped  down  the 
wormwood.  He  shuddered  slightly  when  it 
was  all  gone,  and  his  face  was  a  study. 

"Well  done!"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "It's 
sure  to  do  you  good." 

"I  think  I'd  have  got  well  without,"  said 
Sam.     "I'm  afraid  it  won't  agree  with  me." 

"If  it  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  cheerfully, 
"I'll  try  some  castor  oil." 

"I  guess  I  won't  need  it,"  said  Sam,  hastily* 


S$  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"It  was  awful,"  said  Sam  to  himself,  as  his 
nurse  left  him  alone.  "I'd  rather  hoe  pota- 
toes than  take  it  again.  I  never  see  such  a 
terrible  old  woman.  She  would  make  me  do 
it,  when  I  wasn't  no  more  sick  than  she  is." 

Mrs.  Hopkins  smiled  to  herself  as  she  went 
downstairs. 

"Served  him  right,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I'll 
1'arn  him  to  be  sick.  Guess  he  won't  try  it 
again  very  soon." 

Two  hours  later  Mrs.  Hopkins  presented 
herself  at  Sam's  door.  He  had  been  looking 
out  of  the  window;  but  he  bundled  into  bed 
as  soon  as  he  heard  her.  Appearances  must 
be  kept  up. 

"How  do  you  feel  now,  Sam?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hopkins. 

"A  good  deal  better,"  said  Sam,  surveying 
in  alarm  a  cup  of  some  awful  decoction  in 
her  hand. 

"Do  you  feel  ready  to  go*to  work  again?" 

"Almost,"  said  Sam,  hesitating. 

"The  wormwood  tea  did  you  good,  it  seems ; 
tat  you're  not  quite  well  yet." 

"I'll  soon  be  well,"  said  Sam,  hastily. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  59 

"I  mean  you  shall  be,"  said  his  visitor.  "Fve 
brought  you  some  more  medicine." 

"Is  it  tea?" 

"No,  castor  oil." 

"I  don't  need  it,"  said  Sam,  getting  up 
quickly.     "I'm  well." 

"If  you  are  not  well  enough  to  go  to  work, 
you  must  take  some  oil." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Sam.  "I'll  go  right  out 
into  the  field." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  unless  you  are  quite 
recovered.  I'm  sure  the  oil  will  bring  you 
round." 

"I'm  all  right,  now,"  said  Sam,  hastily. 

"Very  well;  if  you  think  so,  you  can  go  to 
work." 

Bather  ruefully,  Sam  made  his  way  to  the 
potato  field,  with  his  hoe  on  his  shoulder. 

"Tea  and  castor  oil  are  worse  than  work," 
he  thought.  "The  old  woman's  got  the  best 
of  me,  after  all.  I  wonder  whether  she  knew 
I  was  makin'  believe." 

On  this  point  Sam  could  not  make  up  his 
mind.  She  certainly  seemed  in  earnest,  and 
never  expressed  a  doubt  about  his  being  really 


6o  The    Young   Outlaw. 

sick.  But  all  the  same,  she  made  sickness 
very  disagreeable  to  him,  and  he  felt  that  in 
future  he  should  not  pretend  sickness  when 
she  was  at  home.  It  made  him  almost  sick 
to  think  of  the  bitter  tea  he  had  already  drunk, 
and  the  oil  would  have  been  even  worse. 

The  deacon  looked  up  as  he  caught  sight 
of  Sam. 

"Have  you  got  well?"  he  asked,  innocently, 
for  he  had  not  been  as  clear-sighted  as  his 
wife  in  regard  to  the  character  of  Sam's 
malady. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  "I'm  a  good  deal  better, 
but  I  don't  feel  quite  as  strong  as  I  did." 

"Mebbe  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  fast  a 
little,"  said  the  deacon,  in  all  sincerity,  for 
fasting  was  one  of  his  specifics  in  case  of  sick- 
ness. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  would,"'  said  Sam, 
quickly.     "I'll  feel  better  by  supper  time." 

"I  hope  you  will,"  said  the  deacon. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  piece  of  pie  or  somethin' 
to  take  the  awful  taste  out  of  my  mouth," 
thought  Sam.    "I  can  taste  that  wormwood 


The  Young   Outlaw.  61 

jist  as  plain!  I  wonder  why  such  things  are 
allowed  to  grow.'* 

For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  Sam  worked 
unusually  well.  He  was  under  the  deacon's 
eye,  and  unable  to  get  away,  though  he  tried 
at  least  once.  After  they  had  been  at  work 
for  about  an  hour,  Sam  said,  suddenly: 
"Don't  you  feel  thirsty,  Deacon  Hopkins?" 

"What  makes  you  ask?"  said  the  deacon. 

"Because  I'd  jist  as  lieve  go  to  the  house 
and  get  some  water,"  said  Sam,  with  a  very 
obliging  air. 

"You're  very  considerate,  Samuel;  but  I 
don't  think  it's  healthy  to  drink  between 
meals." 

"Supposin'  you're  thirsty?''  suggested  Sam- 
uel, disappointed. 

"It's  only  fancy.  You  don't  need  drink 
really.  You  only  think  you  do,"  said  the  dea- 
con, and  he  made  some  further  remarks  on 
the  subject,  to  which  Sam  listened  discon- 
tentedly. He  began  to  think  his  situation  a 
very  hard  one. 

"It's  work — work  all  the  time,"  he  said  to 
himself.     "What's  the  good  of  workin'  your- 


62  The   Young   Outlaw. 

self  to  death?  When  I'm  a  man  I'll  work 
only  when  I  want  to." 

Sam  did  not  consider  that  there  might  he 
some  difficulties  in  earning  a  living  unless 
he  were  willing  to  work  for  it.  The  present 
discomfort  was  all  he  thought  of. 

At  last,  much  to  Sam's  joy,  the  deacon  gave 
the  sign  to  return  to  the  house. 

"If  you  hadn't  been  sick,  we'd  have  got 
through  more,"  he  said;  "but  to-morrow  we 
must  make  up  for  lost  time." 

"I  hope  it'll  rain  to-morrow,"  thought  Sam. 
"We  can't  work  in  the  rain." 

At  supper  the  wormwood  seemed  to  give  him 
additional  appetite. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  make  yourself  sick  again, 
Samuel,"  said  the  deacon. 

"There  ain't  no  danger,"  said  Sam,  looking 
alarmed  at  the  suggestion.  "I  feel  all  right 
now." 

"The  wormwood  did  you  good,"  said  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  dryly. 

"T  wonder  if  she  means  anything/'  thought 
Sam. 


The   Yo  ng   Outlaw.  63 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

SAM'S    temptation. 

A  month  passed,  a  month  which  it  is  safe 
to  bay  was  neither  satisfactory  to  Sam  nor 
his  employer.  The  deacon  discovered  that  the 
boy  needed  constant  watching.  When  he  was 
left  to  himself  he  was  sure  to  shirk  his  work, 
and  indulge  his  natural  love  of  living  at  ease. 
His  appetite  showed  no  signs  of  decrease,  and 
the  deacon  was  led  to  remark  that  "Samuel 
had  the  stiddyest  appetite  of  any  boy  he  ever 
knew.  He  never  seemed  to  know  when  he 
had  eaten  enough." 

As  for  Mrs.  Hopkins,  Sam  failed  to  produce 
a  favorable  impression  upon  her.  He  was  by 
no  means  her  ideal  of  a  boy,  though  it  must 
be  added  that  this  ideal  was  so  high  that  few 
living  boys  could  expect  to  attain  it.  He 
must  have  an  old  head  on  young  shoulders, 


64  The    Young   Outlaw. 

and,  in  fact,  be  an  angel  in  all  respects  ex- 
cept the  wings.  On  these,  Mrs.  Hopkins 
probably  would  not  insist.  Being  only  a  boy, 
and  considerably  lazier  and  more  mischievous 
than  the  average,  there  was  not  much  pros- 
pect of  Sam's  satisfying  her  requirements. 

"You'd  better  send  him  to  the  poorhouse, 
deacon,"  she  said  more  than  once.  "He's  the 
most  shif'less  boy  I  ever  see,  and  it's  awful 
the  amount  he  eats." 

"I  guess  I'll  try  him  a  little  longer,"  said 
the  deacon.  "He  ain't  had  no  sort  of  bring- 
in'  up,  you  know." 

So,  at  the  end  of  four  weeks,  Sam  still  con- 
tinued a  member  of  the  deacon's  household. 

As  for  Sam,  things  were  not  wholly  satis- 
factory to  him.  In  spite  of  all  his  adroit  eva- 
sions of  duty,  he  found  himself  obliged  t<j 
work  more  than  he  found  agreeable.  He 
lidn't  see  the  fun  of  trudging  after  the  dea- 
con up  and  down  the  fields  in  the  warm  sum- 
mer days.  Even  his  meals  did  not  yield  un- 
mingled  satisfaction,  as  he  had  learned  from 
experience  that  Mrs.  Hopkins  did  not  approve 
of  giving  him  a  second  slice  of  pie,  and  in 


The   Young   Outlaw.  65 

other  cases  interfered  to  check  the  complete 
gratification  of  his  appetite,  alleging  that  it 
wasn't  good  for  boys  to  eat  too  much. 

Sam  took  a  different  view  of  the  matter,  and 
felt  that  if  he  was  willing  to  take  the  conse- 
quences, he  ought  to  be  allowed  to  eat  as  much 
as  he  pleased.  He  was  not  troubled  with  the 
catechism  any  more.  The  deacon  found  him 
so  stolid  and  unteachable  that  he  was  forced 
to  give  up  in  despair,  and  Sam  became  mas- 
ter of  his  own  time  in  the  evening.  He  usually 
strayed  into  the  village,  where  he  found  com- 
pany at  the  village  store.  Here  it  was  that 
he  met  a  youth  who  was  destined  to  exer- 
cise an  important  influence  upon  his  career. 
This  was  Ben  Warren,  who  had  for  a  few 
months  filled  a  position  in  a  small  retail  store 
in  New  York  City.  Coming  home,  he  found 
himself  a  great  man.  Country  boys  have  gen- 
erally a  great  curiosity  about  life  in  the  great 
cities,  and  are  eager  to  interview  any  one  who 
can  give  them  authentic  details  concerning 
it.  For  this  reason  Ben  found  himself  much 
sought  after  by  the  village  boys,  and  gave  daz- 
zling descriptions  of  life  in  the  metropolisT 


66  The   Young   Outlaw. 

about  which  he  professed  to  be  fully  informed. 
Among  his  interested  listeners  was  Sam, 
whose  travels  had  been  limited  by  a  very  nar- 
row circle,  but  who,  like  the  majority  of  boys, 
was  possessed  by  a  strong  desire  to  see  the 
world. 

"I  suppose  there's  as  many  as  a  thousand 
houses  in  New  York?"  he  said  to  Ben. 

"A  thousand!"  repeated  Ben,  in  derision. 
"There's  a  million !" 

"Honest?" 

"Yes,  they  reach  for  miles  and  miles. 
There's  about  twenty  thousand  streets." 

"It  must  be  awfully  big!  I'd  like  to  go 
there." 

"Oh,  you!"  said  Ben,  contemptuously.  "It 
wouldn't  do  for  you  to  go  there." 

"Why  not?" 

"You  couldn't  get  along  nohow." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  not?"  said  Sam, 
rather  nettled  at  this  depreciation. 

"Oh,  you're  a  country  greenhorn.  You'd 
get  taken  in  right  and  left." 

"I  don't  believe  I  would,"  said  Sam.  "I 
ain't  as  green  as  you  think." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  67 

"You'd  better  stay  with  the  deacon,  and  hoe 
potatoes,"  said  Ben,  disparagingly.  "It  takes 
a  smart  fellow  to  succeed  in  New  York." 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  had  to  come  home?" 
retorted  Sam. 

"I'm  going  back  pretty  soon,"  said  Ben.  "I 
shan't  stay  long  in  such  a  one-horse  place  as 
this." 

"Is  it  far  to  New  York?"  asked  Sam, 
thoughtfully. 

"Over  a  hundred  miles." 

"Does  it  cost  much  to  go  there?" 

"Three  dollars  by  the  cars." 

"That  isn't  so  very  much." 

"No,  but  you've  got  to  pay  your  expenses 
when  you  get  there." 

"I  could  work." 

"What  could  you  do?  You  might,  perhaps, 
black  boots  in  the  City  Hall  Park." 

"What  pay  do  boys  get  for  doing  that?" 
asked  Sam,  seriously. 

"Sometimes  five  cents,  sometimes  ten." 

"I'd  like  it  better  than  farmin'." 

"It  might  do  for  you,"  said  Ben,  turning 
up  his  nose. 


68  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"What  were  you  doing  when  you  were  in 
New  York,  Ben?" 

"I  was  chief  salesman  in  a  dry  goods  store," 
said  Ben,  with  an  air  of  importance. 

"Was  it  a  good  place?" 

"Of  course  it  was,  or  I  wouldn't  have 
stayed  there." 

"What  made  you  leave  it?" 

"I  had  so  much  care  and  responsibility  that 
the  doctor  told  me  I  must  have  rest.  When 
the  boss  was  away,  I  run  the  store  all  alone." 

There  was  no  one  to  contradict  Ben's  con- 
fident assertions,  and  though  some  doubt  was 
entertained  by  his  listener,  none  was  ex- 
pressed. Considering  Ben's  large  claims,  it 
was  surprising  that  his  services  were  not 
sought  by  leading  New  York  firms,  but,  then, 
merit  is  not  always  appreciated  at  once.  That 
was  Ben's  way  of  accounting  for  it. 

Sam  was  never  tired  of  asking  Ben  fresh 
questions  about  New  York.  His  imagination 
had  been  inflamed  by  the  glowing  descriptions 
of  the  latter,  and  he  was  anxious  to  pass 
through  a  similar  experience.  In  fact,  he 
was  slowly  making  up  his  mind  to  leave  the 


The   Young   Outlaw.  69 

deacon,  and  set  out  for  the  brilliant  paradise 
which  so  dazzled  his  youthful  fancy. 

There  was  one  drawback,  however,  and  that 
a  serious  one — the  lack  of  funds.  Though  the 
deacon  supplied  him  with  board,  and  would 
doubtless  keep  him  in  wearing  apparel,  there 
was  no  hint  or  intimation  of  any  further  com- 
pensation for  his  services,  and  Sam's  whole 
available  money  capital  at  this  moment 
amounted  to  only  three  cents.  Now  three 
cents  would  purchase  three  sticks  of  candy, 
and  Sam  intended  to  appropriate  them  in 
this  way,  but  they  formed  a  slender  fund  for 
traveling  expenses;  and  the  worst  of  it  was 
that  Sam  knew  of  no  possible  way  of  increas- 
ing them.  If  his  journey  depended  upon  that, 
it  would  be  indefinitely  postponed. 

But  circumstances  favored  his  bold  design, 
as  we  shall  see. 

One  evening,  as  Sam  was  returning  from  the 
store,  a  man  from  a  neighboring  town,  who 
was  driving  by,  reined  up  his  horse,  and  said : 
"You  live  with  Deacon  Hopkins,  don't  you?" 
'    "Yes,  sir." 

"Are  you  going  home  now?" 


jo  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  I'll  hand  you  a  note  for  him.  Will 
you  think  to  give  it  to  him?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  would  stop  myself,  but  I  haven't  time 
this  evening." 

"All  right.     I'll  give  it  to  him." 

"Take  good  care  of  it,  for  there's  money  in 
it,"  said  the  man,  as  he  passed  it  to  the  boy. 

Money  in  it!  This  attracted  Sam's  atten- 
tion, and  excited  his  curiosity. 

"I  wonder  how  much  there  is  in  it?"  he 
thought  to  himself.  "I  wish  it  was  mine.  I 
could  go  to  New  York  to-morrow  if  I  only 
had  it." 

With  this  thought  prominent  in  his  mind, 
Sam  entered  the  house.  Mrs.  Hopkins  was  at 
the  table  knitting,  but  the  deacon  was  not  to 
be  seen. 

"Where  is  the  deacon?"  asked  Sam. 

"He's  gone  to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins. 
"Did  you  want  to  see  him?" 

"No,"  said  Sam,  slowly. 

"It's  time  you  were  abed,  too,  Sam,"  said 
the  lady.     "You're  out  too  late,  as  I  was  tell- 


The    Young   Outlaw,  71 

in'  the  deacon  to-night.  Boys  like  you  ought 
to  be  abed  at  eight  o'clock,  instead  of  settin' 
tip  half  the  night." 

"I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed  now,"  said  Sam,  tak- 
ing a  lamp  from  the  table. 

"You'd  better,  and  mind  you  get  up  early 
in  the  mornin'." 

Sam  did  not  answer,  for  he  was  busy  think- 
ing. 

He  went  upstairs,  fastened  his  door  inside, 
and  taking  out  the  letter  surveyed  the  out- 
side critically.  The  envelope  was  not  very 
securely  fastened,  and  came  open.  Sam  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  presented,  and  drew 
out  the  inclosure.  His  face  flushed  with  ex- 
citement, as  he  spread  out  two  five-dollar  bills 
on  the  table  before  him. 

"Ten  dollars!"  ejaculated  Sam.  "What  a 
lot  of  money!  If  it  was  only  mine,  I'd  have 
enough  to  get  to  New  York." 


J2  The    Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SAM  TAKES  FRENCH  LEAVE. 

If  Sam  had  been  brought  up  to  entertain 
strict  ideas  on  the  subject  of  taking  the  prop- 
erty of  others,  and  appropriating  it  to  his 
own  use,  the  temporary  possession  of  the  dea- 
con's money  would  not  have  exposed  him  to 
temptation.  But  his  conscience  had  never 
been  awakened  to  the  iniquity  of  theft.  So 
when  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  in  his 
possession  money  enough  to  gratify  his  secret 
desire,  and  carry  him  to  New  York,  there  to 
enter  upon  a  brilliant  career,  it  did  not  oc- 
cur to  him  that  it  would  be  morally  wrong  to 
do  so.  He  did  realize  the  danger  of  detection, 
however,  and  balanced  in  his  mind  whether 
the  risk  was  worth  incurring.  He  decided  that 
it  was. 

"The  deacon  don't  know  I've  got  the  money ," 


The   Young   Outlaw.  73 

%e  reflected.  "He  won't  find  out  for  a  good 
while;  when  he  does,  I  shall  be  in  New  York, 
where  he  won't  think  of  going  to  find  me." 

This  was  the  way  Sam  reasoned,  and  from 
his  point  of  view  the  scheme  looked  very  plaus- 
ible. Sam  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  his  services 
were  not  sufficiently  valuable  to  the  deacon 
to  induce  him  to  make  any  extraordinary  ef- 
forts for  his  capture  So,  on  the  whole,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  run  away. 

"Shall  I  go  now,  or  wait  till  mornin'?** 
thought  Sam. 

He  looked  out  of  his  window.  There  was  no 
moon,  and  the  night  was  therefore  dark.  It 
would  not  be  very  agreeable  to  roam  about  in 
the  darkness.  Besides,  he  was  liable  to  lose 
his  way.  Again,  he  felt  sleepy,  and  the  bed 
looked  very  inviting. 

"I'll  wait  till  mornin',"  thought  Sam.  "I'll 
start  about  four,  and  go  over  to  Wendell,  and 
take  the  train  for  New  York.  I'll  be  awful 
hungry  when  I  get  there.  I  wish  I  could  wait 
till  after  breakfast ;  but  it  won't  do." 

Sam  was  not  usually  awake  at  four.  In- 
deed, he  generally  depended  on  being  woke  up 


74  The   Young   Outlaw. 

by  the  deacon  knocking  on  his  door.  But  when 
boys  or  men  have  some  pleasure  in  view  it  is 
apt  to  act  upon  the  mind  even  when  wrapped 
in  slumber,  and  produce  wakefulness.  So 
Sam  woke  up  about  a  quarter  of  four.  His 
plan  flashed  upon  him,  and  he  jumped  out  of 
bed.  He  dressed  quickly,  and,  taking  his  shoes 
in  his  hand  so  that  he  might  make  no  noise,  he 
crept  downstairs,  and  unlocked  the  front  door, 
and  then,  after  shutting  it  behind  him,  sat 
down  on  the  front  door  stone  and  put  on  his 
shoes. 

"I  guess  they  didn't  hear  me,"  he  said  to 
himself.     "Now,  I'll  be  going." 

The  sun  had  not  risen,  but  it  was  light  with 
the  gray  light  which  precedes  dawn.  There 
was  every  promise  of  a  fine  day,  and  this  helped 
to  raise  Sam's  spirits. 

"What'll  the  deacon  say  when  he  comes  to 
wake  me  up?"  thought  our  hero,  though  I  am 
almost  ashamed  to  give  Sam  such  a  name,  for 
I  am  afraid  he  is  acting  in  a  manner  very  un- 
like the  well-behaved  heroes  of  most  juvenile 
stories,  my  own  among  the  number.  However, 
since  I  have  chosen  to  write  about  a  "young 


The    Young   Outlaw.  75 

outlaw,"  I  must  describe  iiim  as  he  is,  and 
warn  my  boy  readers  that  I  by  no  means  recom- 
mend them  to  pattern  after  him. 

Before  accompanying  Sam  on  his  travels,  let 
us  see  how  the  deacon  was  affected  by  his 
flight. 

At  five  o'clock  he  went  up  to  Sam's  door  and 
knocked. 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  deacon  knocked  louder. 

Still  there  was  no  answer. 

"How  sound  the  boy  sleeps!"  muttered  the 
old  man,  and  he  applied  his  knuckles  vigor- 
ously to  the  door.  Still  without  effect.  There- 
upon he  tried  the  door,  and  found  that  it  was 
unlocked.  He  opened  it,  and  walked  to  the 
bed,  not  doubting  that  he  would  see  Sam  fast 
asleep.  But  a  surprise  awaited  him.  The  bed 
was  empty,  though  it  had  evidently  been  occu- 
pied during  the  night. 

"Bless  my  soul!  the  boy  is  up,"  ejaculated 
the  deacon. 

A  wild  idea  came  to  him  that  Sam  had  vol- 
untarily got  up  at  this  early  hour,  and  gone 


j6  The   Young   Outlaw. 

to  work,  but  lie  dismissed  it  at  once  as  absurd. 
He  knew  Sam  far  too  well  for  that. 

Why,  then,  had  he  got  up?  Perhaps  he  was 
unwell,  and  could  not  sleep.  Not  dreaming  of 
his  running  away,  this  seemed  to  the  deacon 
the  most  plausible  way  of  accounting  for  Sam's 
disappearance,  but  he  decided  to  go  down  and 
communicate  the  news  to  his  wife. 

"Why  were  you  gone  so  long,  deacon?" 
asked  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "Couldn't  you  wake  him 
up?" 

"He  wasn't  there." 

"Wasn't  where?" 

"In  bed." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  Sam's  got  up  already.  I 
couldn't  find  him." 

"Couldn't  find  him?" 

"No,  Martha." 

"Had  the  bed  been  slept  in?" 

"Of  course.  I  s'pose  he  was  sick,  and  couldn't 
sleep,  so  he  went  downstairs." 

"Perhaps  he's  gone  down  to  the  pantry," 
gaid  Mrs.  Hopkins,  suspiciously.  "I'll  go 
down  and  see." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  77 

She  went  downstairs,  followed  by  the  deacon. 
She  instituted  an  examination,  but  found  Sam 
guiltless  of  a  fresh  attempt  upon  the  provision 
department.  She  went  to  the  front  door,  and 
found  it  unlocked. 

"He's  gone  out,"  she  said. 

"So  he  has,  but  I  guess  he'll  be  back  to  break- 
fast," said  the  deacon. 

"I  don't,"  said  the  lady. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  think  he's  run  away." 

"Kun  away !"  exclaimed  the  deacon.  "Why, 
I  never  had  a  boy  run  away  from  me." 

"Well,  you  have  now." 

"Where  would  he  go?  He  ain't  got  no  home. 
He  wouldn't  go  to  the  poorhouse." 

"Of  course  not.  I  never  heard  of  anybody 
that  had  a  comfortable  home  running  away  to 
the  poorhouse." 

"But  why  should  he  run  away?"  argued  the 
deacon. 

"Boys  often  run  away,"  said  his  wife  sen* 
tentiously. 

"He  had  no  cause." 

"Yes,  he  had.  You  made  him  work,  and  he's 


78  The    Young   Outlaw. 

lazy,  and  don't  like  work.  I'm  not  surprised  at 
all." 

"I  s'pose  I'd  better  go  after  him,"  said  the 
deacon. 

"Don't  you  stir  a  step  to  go,  deacon.  He 
ain't  worth  going  after.  I'm  glad  we've  got  rid 
of  him." 

"Well,  he  didn't  do  much  work,"  admitted 
the  deacon. 

"While  he  ate  enough  for  two  boys.  Good 
riddance  to  bad  rubbish,  I  say." 

"I  don't  know  how  he's  goin'  to  get  along. 
He  didn't  have  do  money." 

"I  don't  care  how  he  gets  along,  as  long  as 
he  don't  come  back.  There's  plenty  of  better 
boys  you  can  get." 

Sam  would  not  have  felt  flattered,  if  he  had 
heard  this  final  verdict  upon  his  merits.  It 
must  be  confessed,  however,  that  it  was  well 
deserved. 

A  few  days  afterward,  the  deacon  obtained 
the  services  of  another  boy,  whom  he  found 
more  satisfactory  than  the  runaway,  and  Sam 
was  no  longer  missed.  It  was  not  till  the  tenth 
day  that  he  learned  of  the  theft.  While  riding 


The   Young   Outlaw.  79 

on  that  day,  he  met  Mr.  Comstock,  who  had 
confided  to  Sam  the  money-letter. 

"Good-morning,  Deacon  Hopkins,"  said  he, 
stopping  his  horse. 

"Good-morning,"  said  the  deacon. 

"I  snppose  your  boy  handed  you  a  letter 
from  me." 

"I  haven't  received  any  letter,"  said  the  dea- 
con, surprised. 

"It  was  early  last  week  that  I  met  a  boy  who 
said  he  lived  with  you.  As  I  was  in  a  hurry,  I 
gave  him  a  letter  containing  ten  dollars,  which 
1  asked  him  to  give  to  you." 

"What  day  was  it?"  asked  the  deacon, 
eagerly. 

"Monday.  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  didn't 
give  it  to  you?" 

"No;  he  ran  away  the  next  morning,  and  I 
haven't  seen  him  since." 

"Then  he  ran  away  with  the  money — the 
young  thief !  I  told  him  there  was  money  in  it." 

"Bless  my  soul !  I  didn't  think  Sam  was  so 
bad,"  ejaculated  the  deacon. 

"Didn't  you  go  after  him?" 

**No;  he  wasn't  very  good  to  work,  and  I 


80  The    Young   Outlaw. 

thought  I'd  let  him  run.  Ef  I'd  knowed  about 
the  money,  I'd  have  gone  after  him." 

"It  isn't  too  late,  now." 

"I'll  ask  my  wife  what  I'd  better  do." 

The  deacon  conferred  with  his  wife,  who  was 
greatly  incensed  against  Sam,  and  would  have 
advised  pursuit,  but  they  had  no  clew  to  his 
present  whereabonts. 

"He'll  come  back  some  time,  deacon,"  she 
said.     "When  he  does,  have  him  took  up." 

But  years  passed,  and  Sam  did  not  come 
back,  nor  did  the  deacon  set  eyes  on  him  for 
four  years,  and  then  under  the  circumstances 
recorded  in  the  first  chapter. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  81 


CHAPTER  X. 

Sam's  adventures  at  the  depot. 

It  was  six  miles  to  the  station  at  Wendell, 
where  Sam  proposed  to  take  the  cars  for  New 
York.  He  had  to  travel  on  an  empty  stomach, 
and  naturally  got  ravenously  hungry  before  he 
reached  his  destination.  About  half  a  mile 
this  side  of  the  depot  he  passed  a  grocery 
store,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
get  something  to  eat  there. 

Entering,  he  saw  a  young  man  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves engaged  in  sweeping. 

"Have  you  got  anything  good  to  eat?"  asked 
Sam. 

"This  ain't  a  hotel,"  said  the  young  man, 
taking  Sam  for  a  penniless  adventurer. 

"I  knew  that  before,"  said  Sam ;  "but  haven't 


82  The    Young   Outlaw. 

you  got  some  crackers  or  something,  to  stay  a 
feller's  stomach?" 

"Haven't  you  had  any  breakfast?"  asked  the 
clerk,  curiously. 

"No." 

"Don't  they  give  you  breakfast  where  you 
live?" 

"Not  so  early  in  the  morning.  You  see,  I 
had  to  take  an  early  start,  'cause  I'm  going  to 
attend  my  grandmother's  funeral." 

This,  of  course,  was  a  story  trumped  up  for 
the  occasion. 

"We've  got  some  raw  potatoes,"  said  the 
clerk,  grinning. 

"I've  had  enough  to  do  with  potatoes,"  said 
Sam.   "Haven't  you  got  some  crackers?" 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  we  have.  How  many 
will  you  have?" 

"About  a  dozen." 

While  they  were  being  put  up  in  a  paper  bag, 
the  clerk  inquired:  "How  far  off  does  your 
grandmother  live?" 

"About  twenty  miles  from  here,  on  the  rail- 
road," answered  Sam,  who  didn't  care  to  men* 
tion  that  he  was  bound  for  New  York. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  83 

"Warwick,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  at  a  venture.  "How  soon 
does  the  train  start?" 

"In  about  half  an  hour.  Hold  on,  though', 
that's  the  New  York  train,  and  don't  stop  at 
Warwick." 

"I  guess  I'll  be  goin',"  said  Sam,  hurriedly. 
"Where's  the  depot?" 

"Half  a  mile  straight  ahead,  but  you  needn't 
hurry.  The  train  for  Warwick  don't  go  till 
ten." 

"Never  mind.  I  want  to  see  the  New  York 
train  start,"  and  Sam  hurried  off,  eating  crack- 
ers as  he  walked. 

"I'm  glad  the  train  starts  so  quick,"  thought 
Sam.  "I  don't  want  to  wait  around  here  long. 
I  might  meet  somebody  that  knows  me." 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  depot.  It 
was  a  plain  building,  about  twenty  by  thirty 
feet,  with  a  piazza  on  the  side  toward  the  track. 
He  entered,  and  going  up  to  the  ticket-office 
asked  for  a  ticket  to  New  York. 

"For  yourself?"  asked  the  station  master. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"How  old  are  you?" 


84  The    Young   Outlaw, 

"Twelve." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  pay  for  a  whole  ticket. 
Three  dollars." 

"All  right,"  said  Sam,  promptly,  and  he 
drew  out  a  five-dollar  bill,  receiving  in  return 
two  dollars  and  a  ticket. 

"Do  you  live  in  New  York,  sonny?"  asked 
the  station  master. 

"No,  I'm  only  goin'  to  see  my  aunt,"  an- 
swered Sam,  with  another  impromptu  false- 
hood. 

"I  know  something  about  New  York.  In 
what  street  does  your  aunt  live?" 

Sam  was  posed,  for  he  did  not  know  the 
name  of  even  one  street  in  the  city  he  was 
going  to. 

"I  don't  exactly  remember,"  he  was  forced  to 
admit. 

"Then  how  do  you  expect  to  find  her  if  you 
don't  know  where  she  lives?" 

"Oh,  she'll  meet  me  at  the  depot,"  said  Sam, 
readily. 

"Suppose  she  don't?" 

"I'll  find  her  somehow.  But  she's  sure  to 
meet  me." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  85 

"Going  to  stay  long  in  the  city?" 

"I  hope  so.  Perhaps  my  aunt'll  adopt  me. 
How  soon  will  the  train  be  along?" 

"In  about  fifteen  minutes." 

Here  an  old  lady  came  up,  and  asked  for  a 
ticket  to  New  York. 

"Three  dollars,  ma'am." 

"Three  dollars !  Can't  you  take  less?"  asked 
the  old  lady,  fumbling  in  her  pocket  for  her 
purse. 

"No,  ma'am,  the  price  is  fixed." 

"It's  a  sight  of  money.  Seems  throwed  away, 
too,  jest  for  travelin'.  You  ain't  got  anything 
to  show  for  it.  I  never  was  to  York  in  my  life." 

"Please  hurry,  ma'am,  there  are  others  wait- 
ing." 

"Massy  sakes,  don't  be  so  hasty !  There's  the 
money." 

"And  there's  your  ticket." 

"I  wish  I  know'd  somebody  goin'  to  New 
York.     I'm  afeared  to  travel  alone." 

"There's  a  boy  going,"  said  the  station  mas- 
ter, pointing  to  Sam. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  York?"  asked  the  old  lady, 
peering  over  her  spectacles  at  Sam. 


86  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Was  you  ever  there  afore?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Ain't  your  folks  afeared  to  have  you  go 
alone?" 

"Oh,  no,  they  don't  mind." 

"I  wish  you  was  older,  so's  you  could  look 
after  me." 

Sam  was  rather  flattered  by  the  idea  of  hay- 
ing a  lady  under  his  charge,  and  said,  "I'll  take 
care  of  you,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"Will  you?  That's  a  good  boy.  What's  your 
name?" 

"Sam  Barker,"  answered  our  hero,  with 
some  hesitation,  not  feeling  sure  whether  it 
was  politic  to  mention  his  real  name. 

"Do  you  live  in  New  York?" 

"No,  ma'am ;  but  I'm  goin'  to." 

"When  will  the  cars  git  along?" 

"In  about  ten  minutes." 

"You'll  help  me  get  in,  won't  you?  I've  got 
two  bandboxes,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  man- 
age." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I'll  help  you.  I'm  goin*  omt  o* 


The    Young   Outlaw.  87 

the  platform,  but  I'll  come  in  when  the  cars 
come  along." 

Sam  went  out  on  the  platform,  and  watched 
eagerly  for  the  approach  of  the  cars.  Up  they 
came,  thundering  along  the  track,  and  Sam 
rushed  into  the  depot  in  excitement. 

"Come  along,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "The  cars 
are  here." 

The  old  lady  was  in  a  flutter  of  excitement 
also.  She  seized  one  bandbox,  and  Sam  the 
other,  and  they  hurried  out  on  the  platform. 
They  were  just  climbing  up  the  steps,  when 
the  conductor  asked,  "Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  York,  of  course." 

"Then  this  isn't  the  train.  It  is  going  in  the 
opposite  direction." 

"Lawful  suz !"  ejaculated  the  old  lady,  in  dis- 
may. "What  made  you  tell  me  wrong,  you  bad 
boy?"  and  she  glared  at  him  reproachfully 
over  her  glasses. 

"How  should  I  know?"  said  Sam,  rather 
abashed.  "I  didn't  know  about  no  other  train." 

"You  come  near  makin'  me  go  wrong." 

"I  can't  help  it.  It  would  be  just  as  bad  for 
aae." 


88  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"When  does  the  train  go  to  York,  some- 
body?" asked  the  old  lady,  looking  about  her 
in  a  general  way. 

"Next  train ;  comes  around  in  about  five  min- 
utes." 

Sam  helped  the  old  lady  back  into  the  de- 
pot, rather  ashamed  of  the  mistake  he  had 
made.  He  saw  that  she  had  lost  some  of  her 
confidence  in  him,  and  it  mortified  him  some- 
what. 

It  was  nearly  ten  minutes  after — for  the 
train  was  late — before  the  right  cars  came  up. 

Sam  dashed  into  the  depot  again,  and  seized 
a  bandbox. 

"Here's  the  cars.     Come  along,"  he  said. 

"I  won't  stir  a  step  till  I  know  if  it's  the 
right  cars,"  said  the  old  lady,  firmly. 

"Then  you  may  stay  here,"  said  Sam.  "I'm 
goin'." 

"Don't  leave  your  grandmother,"  said  a 
gentleman,  standing  by. 

"She  isn't  my  grandmother.  Isn't  this  the 
train  to  New  York?" 

"Yes," 


The   Young   Outlaw.  89 

Sam  seized  the  bandbox  once  more,  and  this 
time  the  old  lady  followed  him. 

They  got  into  the  cars  without  difficulty,  and 
the  old  lady  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Sam  took  a  seat  at  the  window  just  behind 
her,  and  his  heart  bounded  with  exultation  as 
he  reflected  that  in  a  few  hours  he  would  be  in 
the  great  city,  of  which  he  had  such  vague  and 
wonderful  ideas.  The  only  drawback  to  his 
enjoyment  was  the  loss  of  his  usual  morning 
meal.  The  crackers  helped  to  fill  him  up,  but 
they  were  a  poor  substitute  for  the  warm 
breakfast  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  at 
the  deacon's.  Still,  Sam  did  not  wish  himself 
back.  Indeed,  as  he  thought  of  the  deacon's 
bewilderment  on  discovering  his  disappear- 
ance, he  broke  into  an  involuntary  laugh. 

"What  are  you  laffin'  at?"  asked  the  old  lady, 
suspiciously. 

Sam  answered :  "I  was  thinkin'  how  near  we 
came  to  bein'  carried  off  to  the  wrong  place." 

"That  ain't  anything  to  laff  at,"  said  the  old 
lady,  grimly. 


9©  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

FIRST   EXPERIENCES  IN   THE  CITY. 

There  are  few  boys  who  do  not  enjoy  a  trip 
©n  the  railroad,  especially  for  the  first  time. 
The  five  hours  which  Sam  spent  on  his  journey 
gave  him  unqualified  delight.  Occasionally  his 
attention  was  called  off  from  the  scenery  by  an 
exclamation  from  the  old  lady,  who  at  every 
jolt  thought  the  cars  were  off  the  track. 

Sam  liberally  patronized  the  apple  and  pea- 
nut merchant,  who  about  once  an  hour  walked 
through  the  cars.  The  crackers  which  he  had 
purchased  at  the  grocery  store  had  not  spoiled 
his  appetite,  but  rather  appeared  to  sharpen 
it.  The  old  lady  apparently  became  hungry 
also,  for  she  called  the  apple  vender  to  her. 

"What  do  you  ask  for  them  apples?"  she  in- 
quired. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  91 

"The  largest  are  three  cents  apiece,  the 
smallest,  two  cents." 

"That's  an  awful  price.  They  ain't  worth 
half  that." 

"We  can't  sell  'em  for  less,  and  make  any 
profit." 

"I'll  give  you  a  cent  for  that  one,"  she  con- 
tinued, pointing  to  the  largest  in  the  basket. 

"That!  Why,  that's  a  three-center.  Can't 
take  it  nohow." 

"I'll  give  you  three  cents  for  them  two." 

"No,  ma'am,  you  may  have  'em  for  five 
cents." 

"Then  I  won't  buy  'em.  My  darter  will  give 
me  plenty  for  nothin'." 

"She  may,  but  I  can't." 

So  the  old  lady  heroically  put  away  the 
temptation,  and  refused  to  purchase. 

All  things  must  have  an  end,  and  Sam's 
journey  was  at  length  over.  The  cars  entered 
the  great  depot.  Sam  hurried  out  of  the  cars, 
never  giving  a  thought  to  the  old  lady,  who  ex- 
pected his  help  in  carrying  out  her  bandboxes. 
He  was  eager  to  make  his  first  acquaintance 
with  the  streets  of  New  York.    There  was  a 


92  The    Young   Outlaw. 

crowd  of  hackmen  in  waiting,  all  of  whom  ap« 
peared  to  Sam  to  be  seeing  which  could  talk 
fastest. 

"Have  a  carriage,  sir?  Take  you  to  any 
hotel." 

One  of  them  got  hold  of  Sam  by  the  arms, 
and  attempted  to  lead  him  to  his  carriage. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  mister,"  said  Sam,  draw- 
ing back.   "Where  are  you  goin'  to  take  me?" 

"Anywhere  you  say.  Astor  House,  St. 
Nicholas,  or  any  other." 

"Is  it  far?" 

"About  five  miles,"  said  the  hackman,  glibly. 

"How  much  are  you  goin'  to  charge?" 

"Only  three  dollars." 

"Three  dollars!"  repeated  Sam,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

He  had  less  than  seven  dollars  now,  and, 
though  he  was  not  particularly  provident,  he 
knew  that  it  would  never  do  to  spend  almost 
half  his  slender  stock  of  money  for  cab  hire. 

"Never  mind,"  said  he.   "I'll  walk." 

"You  can't ;  it's  too  far,"  said  the  hackman, 
eager  for  a  fare. 

"I'll  try." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  93 

So  Sam  strolled  out  of  the  depot,  and  walked 
away.  He  didn't  know  exactly  where  to  go, 
and  thought  he  would  follow  a  man  with  a 
carpetbag,  who  appeared  to  know  his  way. 
This  man  unconsciously  guided  him  to  Broad- 
way. Sam  realized,  from  the  stately  character 
of  the  buildings,  that  he  was  in  an  important 
street,  and,  cutting  lcose  from  his  guide, 
walked  down  toward  the  City  Hall  Park.  It 
seemed  to  him  like  a  dream;  these  beautiful 
warehouses,  showy  stores,  and  the  moving 
throng,  which  never  seemed  to  grow  less,  sur- 
prised him  also.  Though  he  knew  in  advance 
that  New  York  must  be  very  different  from  the 
little  country  town  which,  until  now,  had  been 
his  home,  he  was  not  prepared  for  so  great  a 
difference,  and  wandered  on,  his  mouth  and 
eyes  wide  open. 

At  last  he  reached  the  City  Hall  Park,  and, 
catching  sight  of  a  bench  on  which  one  or  two 
persons  were  already  sitting,  Sam,  feeling  tired 
with  his  walk,  entered  the  park,  and  sat  down 
too. 

"Black  your  boots?"  inquired  a  dirty-faced 
boy,  with  a  box  slung  over  his  shoulders. 


94  The    Young   Outlaw. 

Sam  Jooked  at  his  shoes,  begrimed  with  a 
long  country  walk,  and  hesitated. 

"What  do  you  ask?"  he  said. 

"It's  worth  a  quarter  to  black  them  shoes," 
said  the  boy,  surveying  them  critically. 

"Then  I  can't  afford  it." 

"Twenty  cents." 

"No,"  said  Sam.  "I've  got  to  earn  my  own  liv- 
ing, and  I  can't  afford  it.  Is  blackin'  boots  a 
good  business?" 

"Some  days  it  is,  but  if  it  comes  rainy,  it 
isn't.  I'll  give  you  a  bully  shine  for  ten  cents." 

"Will  you  show  me  afterward  where  I  can 
get  some  dinner  cheap?"  asked  Sam,  who  was 
still  hungry. 

"Yes,"  said  the  bootblack.  "I  know  a  tiptop 
place." 

"Is  it  far  off?" 

"Right  around  in  Chatham  Street — only  a 
minute's  walk." 

"All  right.  Go  ahead.  I'll  give  you  ten 
cents." 

Sam  felt  that  he  was  paying  his  money  not 
only  for  the  actual  service  done,  but  for  valu- 
able   information    besides.      On    the    whole, 


The   Young   Outlaw,  95 

though  he  knew  he  must  be  economical,  it 
seemed  to  him  a  paying  investment. 

"Did  you  come  from  the  country?"  asked 
the  young  knight  of  the  blacking  brush,  while 
he  was  vigorously  brushing  the  first  shoe. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam.  "I  only  got  here  just  now." 

"That's  what  I  thought." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  look  like  a  greenhorn." 

"Do  you  mean  to  insult  me?"  asked  Sam, 
nettled. 

"No,"  said  the  other;  "only,  if  you've  never 
been  here  before,  of  course  you're  green." 

"I  won't  be  long,"  said  Sam,  hastily. 

"Course  you  won't,  'specially  if  you  have  me 
to  show  you  'round." 

"Have  you  lived  long  in  New  York?"  in- 
quired Sam. 

"I  was  born  here,"  said  the  boy. 

"Have  you  been  long  blackin'  boots?" 

"Ever  since  I  was  knee-high  to  a  doorstep." 

"Then  you  make  a  living  at  it?" 

"I  don't  starve.  What  made  you  leave  the 
country?" 

"I  got  tired  of  working  on  a  farm." 


96  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Did  you  have  enough  to  eat?" 

"Yes." 

"And  a  good  bed  to  sleep  in?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you'd  ought  to  have  stayed  there," 
said  the  bootblack. 

"I  think  I  shall  like  the  city  better,"  said 
Sam.     "There's  a  good  deal  more  goin'  on." 

"I'd  like  to  try  the  country.  You  don't  live 
at  the  West,  do  you?" 

"No." 

"Lots  of  boys  goes  West.  Maybe  I'll  go  there, 
some  time." 

"Is  it  a  good  place?" 

"That's  what  they  say.  The  boys  gets  good 
homes  out  there  on  farms." 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  go,"  said  Sam.  "I'm 
tired  of  farmin'." 

By  this  time  the  shoes  were  polished. 

"Ain't  that  a  bully  shine?"  asked  the  boot- 
black, surveying  his  work  with  satisfaction. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam.     "You  know  how  to  do  it." 

"Course  I  do.   Now  where's  the  stamps?" 

Sam  drew  out  ten  cents,  and  handed  them 
to  the  boy. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  97 

"Now  show  me  where  I  can  get  some  dinner." 

"All  right.  Come  along !"  and  the  boy,  sling- 
ing his  box  over  his  shoulder,  led  the  way  to 
a  small  place  on  Chatham  Street.  It  was  a 
basement,  and  did  not  look  overneat ;  but  Sam 
was  too  hungry  to  be  particular,  and  the  odor 
of  the  cooking  was  very  grateful  to  him. 

"I  guess  I'll  get  a  plate  o'  meat,  too,"  said 
the  bootblack.  "I  ain't  had  anything  since 
breakfast." 

They  sat  down  side  by  side  at  a  table,  and 
Sam  looked  over  the  bill  of  fare.  He  finally 
ordered  a  plate  of  roast  beef,  for  ten  cents,  and 
his  companion  followed  his  example.  The 
plates  were  brought,  accompanied  by  a  trian- 
gular wedge  of  bread,  and  a  small  amount  of 
mashed  potato.  It  was  not  a  feast  for  an  epi- 
cure, but  both  Sam  and  his  companion  ap- 
peared to  enjoy  it. 

Sam  was  still  hungry. 

"They  didn't  bring  much,"  he  said.  "I  guess 
I'll  have  another  plate." 

"I  ain't  got  stamps  enough,"  said  his  com- 
panion. 

"If  you  want  another  plate,  I'll  pay  for  it," 


98  The    Young   Outlaw. 

said  Sam,  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  generosity, 
"Will  you?  You're  a  brick!"  said  the  boot- 
black, heartily.   "Then  I  don't  mind.   I'll  have 
another." 

"Do  they  have  any  pie?"  asked  Sam. 
"Course  they  do." 
"Then  I'll  have  a  piece  afterward." 
He  did  not  offer  to  treat  his  companion  to 
pie,  for  he  realized  that  his  stock  of  money  was 
not  inexhaustible.    This  did  not  appear  to  be 
expected,  however,  and  the  two  parted  on  very 
good  terms,  when  the  dinner  was  over. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  99 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

CLARENCE  BROWN. 

Sam  continued  to  walk  about  in  the  neigh* 
borhood  of  the  City  Hall  Park,  first  in  one  di- 
rection, then  in  another ;  but  at  last  he  became 
fatigued.  It  had  been  an  unusually  exciting 
day,  and  he  had  taken  more  exercise  than 
usual,  though  he  had  not  worked;  for  his 
morning  walk,  added  to  his  rambles  about  the 
city  streets,  probably  amounted  to  not  less  than 
twelve  miles.  Then,  too,  Sam  began  to  realize 
what  older  and  more  extensive  travelers  know 
well,  that  nothing  is  more  wearisome  than 
sightseeing. 

So  the  problem  forced  itself  upon  his  atten- 
tion— where  was  he  to  sleep?  The  bed  he  slept 
in  the  night  before  was  more  than  a  hundred 
miles  away.  It  struck  Sam  as  strange,  for  we 
must  remember  how  inexperienced  he  was,  that 


ioo  The    Young    Outlaw. 

he  must  pay  for  the  use  of  a  bed.  How  much, 
he  had  no  idea,  but  felt  that  it  was  time  to 
make  some  inquiries. 

He  went  into  a  hotel  on  the  European  sys- 
tem, and  asked  a  man  who  was  standing  at  the 
cigar  stand,  "What  do  you  charge  for  sleeping 
here?" 

"Ask  of  that  man  at  the  desk,"  said  the  cigar 
vender. 

Sam  followed  directions,  and  approaching 
the  room-clerk,  preferred  the  same  inquiry. 

"One  dollar,"  was  the  answer. 

"One  dollar,  just  for  sleeping?"  inquired 
Sam,  in  surprise,  for  in  his  native  village  he 
knew  that  the  school-teacher  got  boarded  for 
three  dollars  a  week,  board  and  lodging  com- 
plete for  seven  days. 

"Those  are  our  terms,"  said  the  clerk. 

"I  don't  care  about  a  nice  room,"  said  Sam, 
hoping  to  secure  a  reduction. 

"We  charge  more  for  our  nice  rooms,"  said 
the  clerk. 

"Ain't  there  any  cheaper  hotels?"  asked  our 
hero,  rather  dismayed  at  his  sudden  discovery 
of  the  great  cost  of  living  in  New  York. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  101 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  clerk,  carelessly; 
but  he  did  not  volunteer  any  information  as  to 
their  whereabouts. 

Sam  walked  slowly  out  of  the  hotel,  quite 
uncertain  where  to  go,  or  what  to  do.  He  had 
money  enough  to  pay  for  a  night's  lodging, 
even  at  this  high  price,  but  he  judged  wisely 
that  he  could  not  afford  to  spend  so  large  a 
part  of  his  small  stock  of  money. 

"I  wonder  where  the  boys  sleep  that  black 
boots,"  he  thought.  "They  can't  pay  a  dollar 
a  night  for  sleeping." 

He  looked  around  for  the  boy  who  had 
guided  him  to  a  restaurant,  but  could  not  find 
him. 

It  was  now  eight  o'clock,  and  he  began  to 
think  he  should  have  to  go  back  to  the  hotel 
after  all,  when  a  shabby-looking  man,  with 
watery  eyes  and  a  red  nose,  accosted  him. 

"Are  you  a  stranger  in  the  city,  my  young 
friend?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  rather  relieved  at  the  op- 
portunity of  speaking  to  somebody. 

"So  I  thought.     Where  are  you  boarding?" 

"Nowhere,"  said  Sam. 


io2  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Where  do  you  sleep  to-night  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sam,  rather  helplessly. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  a  hotel?" 

"They  charge  too  much,"  said  Sam. 

"Haven't  you  got  money  enough  to  pay  for  a 
lodging  at  a  hotel?"  asked  the  stranger,  with 
rather  less  interest  in  his  manner. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Sam,  "a  good  deal  more  than 
that ;  but  then,  I  want  to  make  my  money  last 
till  I  can  earn  something." 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  answered  the 
stranger,  his  interest  returning.  "You  are 
quite  right,  my  dear  friend.  I  am  glad  to  see 
that  you  are  so  sensible.  Of  course  you  ought 
not  to  go  to  a  hotel.  They  charge  too  high  alto- 
gether." 

"But  I  must  sleep  somewhere,"  said  Sam, 
anxiously.  "I  only  got  to  New  York  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  don't  know  where  to  go." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  I  thought  you  might 
be  in  trouble,  seeing  you  were  a  stranger.  It's 
lucky  you  met  me." 

"Can  you  tell  me  of  any  place  to  spend  the 
night?"  asked  Sam,  encouraged  by  the 
stranger's  manner. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  103 

"Yes ;  I'll  let  you  stay  with  me,  and  it  shan't 
cost  you  a  cent." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sam,  congratulating  him- 
self on  his  good  luck  in  meeting  so  benevolent 
a  man.  He  could  not  help  admitting  to  himself 
that  the  philanthropist  looked  shabby,  even 
seedy.  He  was  not  the  sort  of  man  from  whom 
he  would  have  expected  such  kindness,  but  that 
made  no  difference.  The  offer  was  evidently  a 
desirable  one,  and  Sam  accepted  it  without  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

"I  remember  when  I  came  to  the  city  my- 
self," explained  the  stranger.  "I  was  worse  off 
than  you,  for  I  had  no  money  at  all.  A  kind 
man  gave  me  a  night's  lodging,  just  as  I  offer 
one  to  you,  and  I  determined  that  I  would  do 
the  same  by  others  when  I  had  a  chance." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Sam. 

"Perhaps  you  won't  say  so  when  you  see  my 
rooms,"  said  the  other.  "I  am  not  a  rich  man." 

Glancing  at  the  man's  attire,  Sam  found  no 
difficulty  in  believing  him.  Our  hero,  though 
not  very  observing,  was  not  prepossessed  in 
favor  of  the  New  York  tailors  by  what  he  sawy 
for  the  stranger's  coat  was  very  long,  while  his 


104  The   Young   Outlaw. 

pants  were  very  short,  and  his  vest  was  con- 
siderably too  large  for  him.  Instead  of  a  col- 
lar and  cravat,  he  wore  a  ragged  silk  handker- 
chief tied  around  his  throat.  His  hat  was 
crumpled  and  greasy,  and  the  best  that  could 
be  said  of  it  was,  that  it  corresponded  with  the 
rest  of  his  dress. 

"I  don't  live  in  a  very  nice  place,"  said  the 
stranger ;  "but  perhaps  you  can  put  up  with  it 
for  one  night." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Sam  hastily.  "I 
ain't  used  to  anything  very  nice." 

"Then  it's  all  right,"  said  the  stranger. 
"Such  as  it  is,  you  are  welcome.  Now,  I  sup- 
pose you  are  tired." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  I'll  take  you  to  my  room  at  once. 
We'll  go  up  Centre  Street." 

Sam  cheerfully  followed  his  conductor.  He 
felt  like  a  storm-tossed  mariner,  who  has  just 
found  port. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  his  guide, 

"Sam  Barker." 

"Mine  is  Clarence  Brown." 

"Is  it?"  asked  Sam. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  105 

He  could  not  help  thinking  the  name  too 
fine  for  a  man  of  such  shabby  appearance,  and 
yet  it  would  be  hard,  when  names  are  so  cheap, 
if  all  the  best  ones  should  be  bestowed  on  the 
wealthy. 

"It's  a  good  name,  isn't  it?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"Tiptop." 

"I  belong  to  a  good  family,  though  yon 
wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  me  now,"  continued 
his  guide.  "My  father  was  a  wealthy  mer- 
chant." 

"Was  he?"  asked  Sam,  curiously. 

"Yes,  we  lived  in  a  splendid  mansion,  and 
kept  plenty  of  servants.  I  was  sent  to  an  ex- 
pensive school,  and  I  did  not  dream  of  coming 
to  this." 

Mr.  Brown  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  coat- 
sleeves,  as  he  thus  revived  the  memories  of  his 
early  opulence. 

"Did  your  father  lose  his  money?"  asked 
Sam,  getting  interested. 

"He  did,  indeed,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
enotion.  "It  was  in  the  panic  of  1837.  Did  you 
ev*r  hear  of  it?" 


io6  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Sam,  who  was  not  very 
conversant  with  the  financial  history  of  the 
country. 

"My  father  became  a  bankrupt,  and  soon 
after  died  of  grief,''  continued  the  stranger. 
"I  was  called  back  from  boarding  school,  and 
thrown  upon  the  cold  mercies  of  the  world." 

"That  was  hard  on  you,"  said  Sam. 

"It  was,  indeed,  my  young  friend.  I  perceive 
that  you  have  a  sympathetic  heart.  You  can 
feel  for  the  woes  of  others." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  concluding  that  such  an 
answer  was  expected. 

"I  am  glad  I  befriended  you.  Have  you  also 
seen  better  days?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Sam.  "It's  been 
pleasant  enough  to-day." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean,  were  you  ever 
rich?" 

"Not  that  I  can  remember,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  re- 
duced from  affluence  to  poverty.  It  is  a  bitter 
experience." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Sam,  who  felt  a 
little  tired  of  Clarence  Brown's  reminiscences, 


The    Young   Outlaw.  107 

and  wondered  how  soon  they  would  reach  that 
gentleman's  house. 

Meanwhile,  they  had  gone  up  Centre  Street, 
and  turned  into  Leonard  Street.  It  was  not  an 
attractive  locality,  nor  were  the  odors  that 
reached  Sam's  nose  very  savory. 

"This  is  where  I  live,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  paus- 
ing before  a  large  dilapidated-looking  tene- 
ment house  of  discolored  brick. 

"You  don't  live  here  alone,  do  you?"  in- 
quired Sam,  who  was  not  used  to  crowded 
tenement  houses. 

"Oh,  no,  I  only  occupy  an  humble  room  up- 
stairs.    Follow  me,  and  I'll  lead  you  to  it," 

The  staircase  was  dirty,  and  in  keeping  with 
the  external  appearance  of  the  house.  The  wall 
paper  was  torn  off  in  places,  and  contrasted 
very  unfavorably  with  the  neat  house  of  Dea- 
con Hopkins.  Sam  noticed  this,  but  he  was 
tired  and  sleepy,  and  was  not  disposed  to  be 
over-critical,  as  he  followed  Mr.  Brown  in 
silence  to  the  fourth  floor. 


3o8  The    Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BOBBED     IN     HIS     SLEEP. 

Arrived  at  his  destination,  Mr.  Brown 
opened  a  door  and  bade  Sam  enter.  It  was 
rather  dark,  and  it  was  not  until  his  host 
lighted  a  candle  that  Sam  could  obtain  an  idea 
of  the  appearance  of  the  room.  The  ceiling 
was  low,  and  the  furniture  scanty.  A  couple 
of  chairs,  a  small  table,  of  which  the  paint  was 
worn  off  in  spots,  and  a  bed  in  the  corner,  were 
the  complete  outfit  of  Mr.  Brown's  home.  He 
set  the  candle  on  the  table,  and  remarked, 
apologetically :  "I  don't  live  in  much  style,  as 
you  see.  The  fact  is,  I  am  at  present  in 
straitened  circumstances.  When  my  uncle  dies 
I  shall  inherit  a  fortune.  Then,  when  you  come 
to  see  me,  I  will  entertain  you  handsomely." 

"Is  your  uncle  rich?"  asked  Sam. 

"I  should  say  he  was.     He's  a  millionaire.'5 

"Why  don't  he  do  something  for  you  now?" 


The   Young   Outlaw.  109 

Mr.  Clarence  Brown  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"'He's  a  very  peculiar  man — wants  to  keep 
every  cent  as  long  as  he  lives.  When  he's  dead 
it's  got  to  go  to  his  heirs.  That's  why  he  lives 
in  a  palatial  mansion  on  Madison  Avenue, 
while  I,  his  nephew,  occupy  a  shabby  apart- 
ment like  this." 

Sam  looked  about  him,  and  mentally  ad- 
mitted the  justice  of  the  term.  It  was  a  shabby 
apartment,  without  question.  Still,  he  was  to 
lodge  there  gratis,  and  it  was  not  for  him  to 
complain. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  casually, 
after  exploring  his  pockets  apparently  with- 
out success,  "you  haven't  got  a  quarter,  have 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  so." 

"All  right;  I'll  borrow  it  till  to-morrow,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"Certainly,"  said  Sam,  handing  over  the 
sum  desired. 

"I'll  go  out  and  get  some  whiskey.  My  sys- 
tem requires  it.  You  won't  mind  being  left 
alone  for  five  minutes." 

"Oh,  no." 


no  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Very  good.     I  won't  stay  long." 

Mr.  Brown  went  out,  and  our  hero  sat  down 
on  the  bed  to  wait  for  him. 

"So  this  is  my  first  night  in  the  city,"  he 
thought.  "I  expected  they  had  better  houses. 
This  room  isn't  half  so  nice  as  I  had  at  the  dea- 
con's. But,  then,  I  haven't  got  to  hoe  potatoes. 
I  guess  I'll  like  it  when  I  get  used  to  it.  There 
isn't  anybody  to  order  me  around  here." 

Presently  Mr.  Brown  came  back.  He  had  a 
bottle  partially  full  of  whiskey  with  him. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,"  he  said.  "Were 
you  lonely?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"I've  got  a  couple  of  glasses  here  some- 
where.  Oh,  here  they  are.  Now  we'll  see  how 
it  tastes." 

"Not  much  for  me,"  said  Sam.  "I  don't 
think  I'd  like  it." 

"It'll  be  good  for  your  stomach.  However,  1 
won't  give  you  much." 

He  poured  out  a  little  in  one  tumbler  for 
Sam,  and  a  considerably  larger  amount  f©!? 
himself. 

"Your  health,"  he  said,  nodding. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  in 

**33iank  you,"  said  Sam. 

Sam  tasted  the  whiskey,  but  the  taste  did 
kst  please  him.  He  set  down  the  glassy  but  his 
ho&t  drained  his  at  a  draught. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  asked  Brown. 

"Not  very  much." 

"Don't  you  care  to  drink  it?" 

"I  guess  not." 

"It's  a  pity  it  should  be  wasted." 

To  prevent  this,  Mr.  Brown  emptied  Sam's 
glass  also. 

"Now,  if  you  are  not  sleepy,  we  might  have 
a  game  of  cards,"  suggested  Brown. 

"I  think  I'd  rather  go  to  bed,"  said  Sam, 
yawning. 

"All  right !  Go  to  bed  any  time.  I  dare  say 
you  are  tired.  Do  you  go  to  sleep  easily?" 

"In  a  jiffy." 

"Then  you  won't  mind  my  absence.  I've  got 
to  make  a  call  on  a  sick  friend,  but  I  shan't  be 
out  late.  Just  make  yourself  at  home,  go  to 
sleep,  and  you'll  see  me  in  the  morning." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Don't  bolt  the  door,  as  I  don't  want  to 
wake  you  up  when  I  come  in." 


ii2  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"All  right." 

Again  Mr.  Brown  went  out,  and  Sam  un- 
dressed and  got  into  bed.  It  was  not  very  com 
fortable,  and  the  solitary  sheet  looked  as  if  it 
had  not  been  changed  for  three  months  or  more. 
However,  Sam  was  not  fastidious,  and  he  was 
sleepy.  So  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  was  soon  in 
the  land  of  dreams. 

It  was  about  two  hours  afterward  that  Clar- 
ence Brown  entered  the  room.  He  walked  on 
tiptoe  to  the  bed,  and  looked  at  Sam. 

"He's  fast  asleep,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Did 
he  undress?  Oh,  yes,  here  are  his  clothes.  I'll 
take  the  liberty  of  examining  his  pockets,  to 
see  whether  my  trouble  is  likely  to  be  re- 
warded." 

Brown  explored  one  pocket  after  the  other. 
He  found  no  pocketbook,  for  Sam  did  not  pos- 
sess any.  In  fact,  he  had  never  felt  the  need 
of  one  until  he  appropriated  the  deacon's 
money.  The  balance  of  this  was  tucked  away 
in  his  vest  pocket. 

"Six  dollars  and  ten  cents,"  said  Browny 
after  counting  it  "It  isn't  much  of  a  haul, 
that's  a  fact.  I  thought  he  had  twice  as  muck, 


The   Young   Outlaw.  113 

at  the  least.  Still,"  he  added,  philosophically, 
"it's  better  than  nothing.  I  shall  find  a  use  for 
it  without  doubt." 

He  tucked  the  money  away  in  his  own 
pocket,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bedstead 
in  meditation. 

"I  may  as  well  go  to  bed,"  he  reflected.  "He 
won't  find  out  his  loss  in  the  night,  and  in  the 
morning  I  can  be  off  before  he  is  up.  Even  if  I 
oversleep  myself,  I  can  brazen  it  out.  He's 
only  a  green  country  boy.  Probably  he  won't 
suspect  me,  and  if  he  does,  he  can  prove  noth- 
ing." 

He  did  not  undress,  but  lay  down  on  the  bed, 
dressed  as  he  was.  He,  too,  was  soon  asleep, 
and  Sam,  unconscious  of  his  loss,  slept  on.  So 
the  money  was  doubly  stolen,  and  the  first  thief 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  a  more  experienced 
thief. 

The  sun  had  been  up  nearly  three  hours  the 
next  morning  before  Clarence  Brown  awoke. 
As  he  opened  his  eyes,  his  glance  fell  on  Sam 
still  asleep,  and  the  events  of  the  evening  pre« 
7ious  came  to  his  mind. 


H4  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"I  must  be  up,  and  out  of  this,"  he  thought, 
"before  the  young  greenhorn  wakes  up." 

Being  already  dressed,  with  the  exception 
of  his  coat,  he  had  little  to  do  beyond  rising. 
He  crept  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe,  and,  mak- 
ing his  way  to  a  restaurant  at  a  safe  distance, 
sat  down  and  ordered  a  good  breakfast  at 
Sam's  expense. 

Meanwhile,  Sam  slept  on  for  half  an  hour 
more. 

Finally  he  opened  his  eyes,  and,  oblivious  of 
his  changed  circumstances,  was  surprised  that 
he  had  not  been  called  earlier.  But  a  single 
glance  about  the  shabby  room  recalled  to  his 
memory  that  he  was  now  beyond  the  deacon's 
jurisdiction. 

"I  am  in  New  York,"  he  reflected,  with  a 
thrill  of  joy.     "But  where  is  Mr.  Brown?" 

He  looked  in  vain  for  his  companion,  but  no 
suspicion  was  excited  in  his  mind. 

"He  didn't  want  to  wake  me  up,"  he  thought. 
"I  suppose  he  has  gone  to  his  business." 

He  stretched  himself,  and  lay  a  little  longer. 
It  was  a  pleasant  thought  that  there  was  no 
stern  taskmaster  to  force  him  up.     He  might 


The   Young   Outlaw.  115 

lie  as  long  as  he  wanted  to — till  noon,  if  he 
chose.  Perhaps  he  might  have  chosen,  but  the 
claims  of  a  healthy  appetite  asserted  them- 
selves, and  Sam  sprang  out  of  bed. 

"I'll  have  a  good  breakfast,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "and  then  I  must  look  around  and  see  if 
I  can't  find  something  to  do;  my  money  will 
soon  be  out." 

It  was  natural  that  he  should  have  felt  for 
his  money  at  that  moment,  but  he  did  not.  No 
suspicion  of  Mr.  Brown's  dishonesty  had  en- 
tered his  mind.  You  see,  Sam  was  very  un- 
sophisticated at  that  time,  and,  though  he  had 
himself  committed  a  theft,  he  did  not  suspect 
the  honesty  of  others. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go  without  thank- 
ing Mr.  Brown,  as  he  don't  seem  to  be  here," 
he  reflected.  "Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  some- 
where about  the  streets.  I've  saved  a  dollar, 
anyway,  or  at  least  seventy-five  cents,"  he 
added,  thinking  of  the  quarter  he  had  lent  his 
hospitable  entertainer  the  evening  before. 
"Perhaps  he'll  let  me  sleep  here  again  to- 
night. It'll  be  a  help  to  me,  as  long  as  1 
haven't  got  anything  to  do  yet." 


Ii6  The    Young   Outlaw. 

Still  Sam  did  not  feel  for  his  money,  and  was 
happily  unconscious  of  his  loss. 

He  opened  his  door,  and  found  his  way  down- 
stairs into  the  street  without  difficulty.  The 
halls  and  staircases  looked  even  more  dingy 
and  shabby  in  the  daytime  than  they  had  done 
in  the  evening.  "It  isn't  a  very  nice  place  to 
live,"  thought  Sam.  "However,  I  suppose  Mr. 
Brown  will  be  rich  when  his  uncle  dies.  I  wish 
he  was  rich  now;  he  might  give  me  a  place." 

"Shine  yer  boots?"  asked  a  small  knight  of 
the  brush. 

"No,"  said  Sam,  who  had  grown  economical ; 
"they  don't  need  it." 

He  walked  on  for  five  minutes  or  more. 
Presently  he  came  to  an  eating  house.  He  knew 
it  by  the  printed  bills  of  fare  which  were  pla- 
carded outside. 

"Now,  I'll  have  some  breakfast,"  he  thought, 
with  satisfaction,  and  he  entered  confidently. 


[The  Young   Outlaw.  .117 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BOUNCED. 

Sam  sat  down  at  a  table,  and  took  up  the 
bill  of  fare.  A  colored  waiter  stood  by,  and 
awaited  his  orders. 

"Bring  me  a  plate  of  beefsteak,  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  some  tea  biscuit,"  said  Sam,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  of  fortune. 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  the  waiter. 

"After  all,  it's  pleasant  living  in  New  York," 
thought  Sam,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  awaited  in  pleasant  anticipation  the  fulfill- 
ment  of  his  order.  "It's  different  from  livin* 
at  the  deacon's.  Here  a  feller  cau  be  in- 
dependent." 

"As  long  as  he  has  money,"  Sam  should  have 
added ;  but,  like  some  business  men,  he  was  not 
aware  of  his  present  insolvency.  Ignorance  is 
bliss,  sometimes;  and  it  is  doubtful  whether 
our  hero  would  have  eaten  his  breakfast  ^itb 


n8  The   Young   Outlaw. 

as  good  a  relish  when  it  came,  if  he  had  known 
that  he  had  not  a  cent  in  his  pocket. 

Sam  was  soon  served,  and  he  soon  made  wa? 
with  the  articles  he  had  ordered.  You  can't 
get  a  very  liberal  supply  of  beefsteak  for  fifteen 
cents,  which  was  what  Sam  was  charged  for 
his  meat.  He  felt  hungry  still,  after  he  had 
eaten  what  was  set  before  him.  So  he  took  the 
bill  of  fare  once  more,  and  pored  over  its  well- 
filled  columns. 

"They  must  have  a  tremendous  big  kitchen 
to  cook  so  many  things,"  he  thought.  "Why, 
there  are  as  many  as  a  hundred.  Let  me  see — ■ 
here's  buckwheat  cakes,  ten  cents.  I  guess  I'll 
have  some." 

"Anything  more,  sir?"  asked  the  waiter,  ap- 
proaching to  clear  away  the  dirty  dishes. 

"Buckwheat  cakes,  and  another  cup  of 
coffee,"  ordered  Sam. 

"All  right,  sir." 

"They  treat  me  respectful  here,"  thought 
Sam.  "What  would  the  deacon  say  to  hear  me 
called  sir?  I  like  it.  Folks  have  better  man- 
ners in  the  city  than  in  the  country." 

This  was  rather  a  hasty  conclusion  on  tlie 


The   Young   Outlaw.  119 

part  of  Sam,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  had 
occasion  enough  to  change  his  mind. 

He  ate  the  buckwheat  cakes  with  a  relish, 
and  felt  tolerably  satisfied. 

"Anything  more,  sir?"  asked  the  waiter. 

Sam  was  about  to  say  no,  when  his  eye  rested 
on  that  portion  of  the  bill  devoted  to  pastry, 
and  he  changed  his  mind. 

"Bring  me  a  piece  of  mince  pie,"  he  said. 

Sam  was  sensible  that  he  was  ordering 
breakfast  beyond  his  means,  but  he  vaguely  re- 
solved that  he  would  content  himself  with  a 
small  dinner.  He  really  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  the  pie. 

At  last  it  was  eaten,  and  the  waiter  brought 
him  a  ticket,  bearing  the  price  of  his  break- 
fast, fifty  cents.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  felt 
in  his  vest  pocket  for  his  money.  He  felt  in 
vain.    Still  he  did  not  suspect  his  loss. 

"I  thought  I  put  it  in  my  vest  pocket,''  he 
said  to  himself.  "I  guess  I  made  a  mistake,  and 
put  it  in  some  other." 

He  felt  in  another  pocket,  and  still  another? 
till  he  had  explored  every  pocket  he  possessed, 
and  still  no  money. 


120  The   Young   Outlaw. 

Sam  turned  pale,  and  his  heart  gave  a  sud- 
den thump,  as  the  extent  of  his  misfortune 
dawned  upon  him.  It  was  not  alone  that  he 
was  without  money  in  a  strange  city,  but  he 
had  eaten  rather  a  hearty  breakfast,  which  he 
was  unable  to  pay  for.  What  would  they  think 
of  him?  What  would  they  do  to  him?  He  saw 
it  all  now.  That  specious  stranger,  Clarence 
Brown,  had  robbed  him  in  his  sleep.  That  was 
why  he  had  invited  him  to  spend  the  night  in 
his  room  without  charge.  That  was  why  he  had 
got  up  so  early  and  stolen  out  without  his 
knowledge,  after  he  had  purloined  all  his 
money. 

Sam  was  not  particularly  bashful;  but  he 
certainly  felt  something  like  it,  as  he  walked 
up  to  the  cashier's  desk.  A  man  stood  behind 
it,  rather  stout,  and  on  the  whole  not  benevo- 
lent in  his  looks.  There  was  no  softness  about 
his  keen  business  face.  Sam  inferred  with  a 
sinking  heart  that  he  was  not  a  man  likely  to 
sympathize  with  him  in  his  misfortunes,  or 
seem  to  give  credence  to  them. 

Sam  stood  at  the  counter  waiting  while  the 
proprietor  was  making  change  for  another  cus- 


The   Young   Outlaw.  121 

tomer.  He  was  considering  what  he  could  best 
say  to  propitiate  his  creditor. 

"Now,  then,"  said  the  man  behind  the  coun- 
ter, a  little  impatiently,  for  another  had  come 
up  behind  Sam,  "  ;  here's  your  ticket?" 

"Here,  sir,"  said  Sam,  laying  it  on  the  coun- 
ter. 

"Fifty  cents.  Pay  quick,  and  don't  keep  me 
waiting." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  Sam  began,  "but " 

"But  what !"  exclaimed  the  proprietor,  with 
an  ominous  scowl. 

"I  can't  pay  you  now." 

"Can't  pay  me  now!"  repeated  the  other, 
angrily;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"I've  lost  my  money,"  said  Sam,  feeling 
more  and  more  uncomfortable. 

By  this  time  the  patience  of  the  restaurant- 
keeper  was  quite  gone. 

"What  business  had  you  to  come  in  here  and 
order  an  expensive  breakfast  when  you  had  no 
money?"  he  demanded,  furiously. 

"I  thought  I  had  some  money,"  said  Sam, 
fervently  wishing  himself  back  at  the  deacon's 
for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  in  the  city. 


!I22  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"How  could  you  think  you  had  some  when 
you  hadn't  any?" 

"I  had  some  last  night,"  said  Sam,  eagerly ; 
"but  I  slept  in  Mr.  Brown's  room,  and  he  must 
have  robbed  me  in  the  night." 

"That's  a  likely  story !"  sneered  the  proprie- 
tor. "What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Jones?"  he 
asked,  turning  to  a  customer,  whom  he  knew 
by  name. 

Mr.  Jones  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Too  thin !"  he  replied,  briefly. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  the  proprietor,  an- 
grily.    "This  boy's  evidently  a  beat." 

"A  what?"  inquired  Sam,  who  had  not  been 
in  the  city  long  enough  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  the  term. 

"A  dead  beat;  but  you  don't  play  any  of 
your  games  on  me,  young  man.  I've  cut  my  eye- 
teeth,  I  have.  You  don't  swindle  me  out  of  a 
fifty-cent  breakfast  quite  so  easily.  Here,  John, 
call  a  policeman." 

"Oh,  don't  call  a  policeman!"  exclaimed 
Sam,  terror-stricken.  "It's  true,  every  word 
I've  told  you.  I'm  from  the  country.  I  only 
got  to  the  city  yesterday,  and  I've  been  robbed 


The   Young   Outlaw.  123 

of  all  my  money,  over  six  dollars.  I  hope  you'll 
believe  me." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say,"  said  the 
restaurant-keeper,  harshly.  "You  are  trying 
to  come  it  over  me.  I  dare  say  you've  been 
around  the  streets  half  your  life." 

"I  think  you  are  wrong,  Mr.  Chucks,"  said 
another  customer,  who  was  waiting  to  pay  his 
bill.  "He's  got  a  country  look  about  him.  He 
don't  look  like  one  of  the  regular  street  boys. 
Better  let  him  go.  I  wouldn't  call  a  police- 
man." 

"I  ought  to,}'  grumbled  the  proprietor. 
"Fancy  his  impudence  in  ordering  a  fifty-cent 
breakfast,  when  he  hadn't  a  cent  to  pay  his 
bill." 

"I  wouldn't  have  come  in  if  I  had  known," 
said  Sam. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  said  the  man,  sharply,  "for 
I  don't  believe  it.  Do  you  think  I  can  afford 
to  give  you  breakfast  for  nothing?" 

"I'll  pay  you  as  soon  as  I  get  some  money," 
said  Sam.     "Only  don't  send  me  to  prison." 

"I  won't  give  you  in  charge  this  time,  though 
I  ought  to ;  but  I'll  give  you  something  to  settle 


124  The   Young   Outlaw. 

your  breakfast.  Here,  Peter,  you  waited  on 
this  young  man,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"He  hasn't  paid  for  his  breakfast,  and  pre- 
tends he  hasn't  got  any  money.  Bounce  him !" 

If  Sam  was  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the 
word  "bounce"  he  was  soon  enlightened.  The 
waiter  seized  him  by  the  collar,  before  he  knew 
what  was  going  to  happen,  pushed  him  to  the 
door,  and  then,  lifting  his  foot,  by  a  well- 
directed  kick,  landed  him  across  the  sidewalk 
into  the  street. 

This  proceeding  was  followed  by  derisive 
laughter  from  the  other  waiters  who  had 
gathered  near  the  door,  and  it  was  echoed  by 
two  street  urchins  outside,  who  witnessed 
Sam's  ignominious  exit  from  the  restaurant. 

Sam  staggered  from  the  force  of  the  bounc- 
ing, and  felt  disgraced  and  humiliated  to  think 
that  the  waiter  who  had  been  so  respectful  and 
attentive  should  have  inflicted  upon  him  such 
an  indignity,  which  he  had  no  power  to  resent. 

"I  wish  I  was  back  at  the  deacon's,"  he 
thought,  bitterly. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  asked  one  of  the  boys 


The   Young   Outlaw.  125 

who  had  witnessed  Sam's  humiliation,  not  sym- 
pathetically, but  in  a  tone  of  mockery. 

"None  of  your  business!"  retorted  Sam, 
savagely. 

"He  feels  bad,  Mickey,"  said  the  other. 
"He's  heard  bad  news,  and  that's  what  made 
him  in  such  a  hurry." 

Here  both  the  boys  laughed,  and  Sam  re- 
torted angrily;  "I'll  make  you  feel  bad,  if  you 
ain't  careful." 

"Hear  him  talk,  Mickey — ain't  he  smart?" 

"I'll  make  you  both  smart,"  said  Sam,  be- 
ginning to  roll  up  his  sleeves;  for  he  was  no 
coward,  and  the  boys  were  only  about  his  own 
size. 

"He  wants  to  bounce  us,  like  he  was  bounced 
himself,"  said  Pat  Kiley.  "How  did  it  feel, 
Johnny?" 

Sam  gave  chase,  but  his  tormentors  were 
better  acquainted  with  the  city  than  he,  and 
he  did  not  succeed  in  catching  them.  Finally 
he  gave  it  up,  and,  sitting  down  on  a  convenient 
doorstep,  gave  himself  up  to  melancholy  re- 
flections. 


£26  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ANY  WAY  TO  MAKE  A  LIVING. 

Boys  who  have  a  good  home  are  apt  to  tra« 
dervalue  it.  They  do  not  realize  the  comfort  of 
having  their  daily  wants  provided  for  without 
any  anxiety  on  their  part.  They  are  apt  to 
fancy  that  they  would  like  to  go  out  into  the 
great  world  to  seek  their  fortune.  Sometimes 
it  may  be  necessary  and  expedient  to  leave  the 
safe  anchorage  of  home,  and  brave  the  dangers 
of  the  unknown  sea ;  but  no  boy  should  do  this 
without  his  parents'  consent,  nor  then,  without 
making  up  his  mind  that  he  will  need  all  his 
courage  and  all  his  resolution  to  obtain  success. 

Sam  found  himself  penniless  in  a  great  city, 
and  with  no  way  open,  that  he  could  think  of, 
to  earn  money.  Even  the  business  of  the  boot- 
black, humble  as  it  is,  required  a  small  capital 
to  buy  a  brush  and  box  of  blacking.   So,  too,  a 


The   Young   Outlaw.  127 

newsboy  must  pay  for  his  papers  when  he  gets 
them,  unless  he  is  well  known.  So  Sam,  sitting 
on  the  doorstep,  felt  that  he  was  in  a  tight 
place.  Where  was  he  to  get  his  dinner  from? 
He  did  not  care  to  repeat  his  operation  of  the 
morning,  for  it  was  not  pleasant  to  be 
"bounced." 

"I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  get  a  chance  in  a 
store,"  he  thought.  "That  wouldn't  need  any 
money.  There  seems  to  be  a  lot  of  stores  in  the 
city.  I  guess  there  must  be  a  place  for  me  some- 
where." 

This  thought  encouraged  Sam.  He  arose 
from  his  lowly  seat,  and  determined  to  look 
about  for  a  place.  Presently  he  came  to  a  real 
estate  office.  Sam  did  not  understand  very 
well  what  kind  of  a  business  that  was,  but  on 
the  window  a  piece  of  paper  was  pasted,  on 
which  was  written,  "A  Boy  Wanted." 

"I  guess  I'll  go  in,"  thought  Sam.  "Maybe 
they'll  take  me." 

There  were  three  boys  ahead  of  him ;  but  they 
were  not  very  eligible-looking  specimens.  So 
they  were  dismissed  with  small  ceremony,  and 
Sam  was  beckoned  to  the  desk. 


128  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"I  suppose  you  have  come  about  the  place," 
said  a  man  with  black  whiskers,  and  a  pen  be- 
hind his  ear. 

"Yes,"  answered  Sam. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Twelve," 

"Rather  young.  Still  you  are  large  of  your 
age." 

"I  am  pretty  strong,"  said  Sam,  anxious  to 
succeed  in  his  application. 

"There  isn't  any  work  to  be  done  that  re- 
quires strength,"  said  the  black- whiskered  man. 
"How  is  your  education?" 

"Pretty  good,"  said  Sam,  with  hesitation. 

"Do  you  live  in  the  city?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"With  your  parents?" 

"No,  sir.  They  are  dead." 

"That  is  an  objection.  Perhaps,  however, 
fou  live  with  an  aunt  or  uncle.  That  will 
mswer  as  well." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  determined  to  obviate  thi» 
Ejection.   "I  live  with  my  ma-de." 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

KIn  New  York,"  answered  Sam. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  129 

"Don't  you  understand  me?  I  mean  to  ask 
the  street  and  number." 

Sam  was  posed.  He  could  not  at  the  moment 
think  of  the  name  of  any  street  except  Broad- 
way. But  it  would  not  do  to  hesitate.  So  he 
said  promptly,  "He  lives  at  No.  656  Broad- 
way." 

"What  is  his  business?"  inquired  the  black- 
whiskered  man. 

"He  keeps  a  store,"  answered  Sam,  feel- 
ing that  he  was  getting  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  mire. 

"What  sort  of  a  store?" 

"A  grocery  store?" 

"What,  at  656  Broadway?"  demanded  the 
other,  in  surprise.  "I  didn't  know  there  was 
a  grocery  store  in  that  neighborhood." 

"Oh,  murder!"  thought  Sam.  "I'm  found 
out." 

He  made  no  answer,  because  he  could  not 
think  of  any. 

"Why  don't  your  uncle  give  you  a  place  in 
his  own  store?"  asked  the  real  estate  agent, 
with  some  suspicion  in  his  tone. 


130  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"He's  got  all  the  help  he  wants,"  said  Sam, 
quickly. 

Here  another  boy  entered  the  office,  a  boy 
neatly  dressed,  and  intelligent  in  appearance. 

"Sit  down  a  moment,"  said  the  agent  to 
Sam,  "while  I  speak  with  this  other  lad." 

Sam  took  a  seat,  and  listened  to  the  conver- 
sation with  the  other  boy.  The  conclusion  of 
the  matter  was  that  the  other  boy  was  engaged 
and  Sam  was  obliged  to  go  out  to  offer  his 
services  in  some  other  quarter. 

"What  a  lot  of  lies  I  had  to  tell!"  he  re- 
flected. "What's  the  use  of  their  asking  so 
many  questions?  I  don't  see.  I'll  have  to  try 
somewhere  else." 

As  Sam  was  sauntering  along  he  was  ac- 
costed by  a  tall  man,  evidently  from  the  coun- 
try. 

"Boy,  can  you  direct  me  to  the  Tribune  of- 
fice?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Sam,  "but  it's  some  ways 
from  here.  It'll  be  worth  ten  cents  to  lead 
you  there." 

The  gentleman  hesitated. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  [13 1 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "I'll  give  it 
to  you." 

"Will  you  give  it  to  me  now?"  asked  Sam. 

"I  will  pay  you  when  you  have  done  your 
work." 

"The  reason  I  asked  was,  because  I  showed 
a  man  the  other  day,  and  then  he  wouldn't 
pay  me." 

"That  was  mean,"  said  the  stranger.  "I 
hope  you  don't  think  I  would  serve  you  so." 

"Oh,  no,  sir.  You're  a  gentleman,"  said 
Sam.  "You  wouldn't  cheat  a  poor  boy  that 
hasn't  had  any  breakfast  this  mornin'." 

"Dear  me!  You  don't  say  so?"  ejaculated 
the  compassionate  stranger,  shocked  at  Sam's 
fiction.  "Here,  take  this  twenty-five  cents. 
Do  you  often  have  to  go  without  your  break- 
fast?" 

"Often,  sir,"  said  Sam,  unblushingly.  "It's 
hard  times  for  poor  boys  like  me." 

"There's  another  quarter,"  said  the  stranger, 
his  compassion  still  more  deeply  moved. 

Sam  did  feel  some  compunction  now,  for 
he  was  about  to  make  a  very  poor  return  for 
the  kindness  of  his  new  acquaintance.     The 


132  The    Young   Outlaw. 

fact  was,  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  where 
the  Tribune  office  was,  and  he  had  therefore 
undertaken  what  he  was  unable  to  perform. 
But  he  had  gone  too  far  to  recede.  Besides, 
he  did  not  feel  prepared  to  give  up  the  money 
which  he  had  obtained  through  false  pretenses. 
S©  counterfeiting  a  confidence  which  he  did 
not  feel,  he  led  the  way  up  Centre  Street,  say- 
ing, "This  way,  sir.  I'll  lead  you  right  to  the 
office." 

"I  never  was  at  the  office,"  said  the  stranger, 
"though  I've  been  a  subscriber  to  the  Weekly 
Tribune  for  ten  years." 

"That's  a  good  while,"  said  Sam. 

"It  is  indeed,  my  boy.  I  live  in  Illinois, 
more  than  a  thousand  miles  from  this  city. 
Indeed,  I  have  never  been  in  New  York  be- 
fore." 

"Haven't  you?" 

"No;  now  you,  I  suppose,  my  young  fri&nd, 
know  your  way  all  about  the  city?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Sam,  in  an  off-hand 
manner. 

"If  I  had  more  time,  I  would  get  you  to  guide 
me  around  the  city,"  said  the  stranger. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  133 

"Wouldn't  I  lead  you  a  wild-goose  chase, 
old  gentleman?"  thought  Sam.  "You'd  be 
pretty  well  taken  in,  I  guess." 

"I  am  obliged  to  go  away  to-night,"  con- 
tinued the  old  gentleman,  "but  I  thought  I 
would  renew  my  subsription  to  the  Tribune 
before  I  went." 

"All  right,  sir ;  it's  a  nice  paper,"  said  Sam, 
who  had  never  read  a  line  in  the  Tribune. 

"So  I  think.     Are  we  almost  at  the  office?" 

"Almost,"  said  Sam.  "If  you  don't  mind 
waiting,  I'll  run  over  and  speak  to  my  cousin 
a  minute." 

There  was  a  bootblack  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street.  It  struck  Sam,  who  did  not 
like  to  deceive  so  generous  a  patron,  that  he 
could  obtain  the  information  he  needed  of 
this  boy. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  the  Tribune  office 
is?"  he  asked,  hurriedly. 

The  bootblack  had  no  more  scruples  about 
lying  than  Sam,  and  answered,  glibly,  point- 
ing to  the  Tombs  prison,  a  little  farther  on, 
"Do  you  see  that  big  stone  buildin'?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 


134  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"That's  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sam,  feeling  relieved,  and 
never  doubting  the  correctness  of  this  state- 
ment. 

He  returned  to  the  stranger,  and  said,  cheer- 
fully, "We're  almost  there." 

"Is  that  boy  your  cousin?"  asked  his  ac- 
quaintance. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"He  blacks  boots  for  a  living?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Does  he  do  well  at  it?" 

"Pretty  well." 

"Did  you  ever  black  boots?" 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Sam,  telling  the  truth 
by  way  of  variety. 

"That's  the  Tribune  office,"  said  Sam,  a  mo- 
ment later,  pointing  to  the  gloomy-looking 
prison. 

"Is  it?"  echoed  the  stranger,  in  surprise. 
"Really,  it's  a  very  massive  structure." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  mistaking  the  word  em« 
ployed,  "it's  very  massy." 

"It  doesn't  look  much  like  a  newspaper  of« 
fice." 


The    Young   Outlaw.  135 

For  the  first  time  Sam  began  to  suspect  that 
he  had  been  deceived,  and  he  naturally  felt 
in  a  hurry  to  get  away. 

"You  go  right  in,"  he  said,  confidently,  "and 
they'll  attend  to  you  inside.  Now  I'll  go  and 
get  some  breakfast." 

"To  be  sure.    You  must  be  hungry." 

The  stranger  walked  up  the  massive  steps, 
and  Sam  hurried  away. 

"I  wonder  what  place  that  is,  anyhow,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "Now  I've  got  money  enough 
for  dinner." 

For  a  country  boy,  Sam  was  getting  along 
fast. 


136  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SAM  MEETS  BROWN  AND  IS  UNHAPPY. 

Never  doubting  Sam's  assurance,  the 
stranger  entered  the  gloomy  building.  A  man 
came  out  of  the  corridor  and  he  accosted  him 
with  the  question : 

"Where  is  the  counting-room?" 

"The  counting-room!"  repeated  the  man, 
staring.  "There  isn't  any  here,  that  I  know 
of." 

"I  want  to  subscribe  for  the  weekly  edition," 
explained  the  man  from  Illinois. 

"It  strikes  me  you're  a  weakly  edition  of 
a  man  yourself,"  thought  the  other.  "He  must 
be  a  lunatic,"  was  the  next  thought.  "I  may 
as  well  humor  him." 

"Go  in  at  that  door,"  he  said. 

The  stranger  entered  as  directed,  and  at 
once  recognized  it  as  a  prison. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  137 

"It  is  very  singular  that  there  should  be 
a  prison  in  the  Tribune  office,"  he  thought, 
He  took  a  seat,  and  whispered  to  a  man  at  hia 
side:  "Can  you  tell  me  where  the  Tribune 
office  is?" 

"Printing  House  Square"  was  the  whis- 
pered reply. 

"Where's  that?" 

"Not  much  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
here." 

"The  boy  deceived  me,"  thought  the  stranger 
indignantly,  "and  I  gave  him  fifty  cents  for 
doing  it.     He  must  be  a  young  rascal." 

"What  building  is  this?"  he  asked,  still  in 
a  whisper. 

"The  Tombs." 

"What,  the  prison?" 

"Yes;  didn't  you  know  it?"  asked  the  in- 
formant, in  surprise. 

"I  am  a  stranger  in  the  city,"  said  the  Illi- 
nois man,  apologetically. 

"Did  you  want  to  go  to  the  Tribune  office?" 

"Yes;  I  wished  to  subscribe  for  the  paper." 

"I  am  going  that  way.  I  will  show  you  if 
you  desire  it." 


138  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Thank  you.     I  shall  consider  it  a  favor." 

So  the  two  retraced  their  steps,  and  this 
time  our  Illinois  friend  found  the  office  of 
which  he  was  in  quest.  He  came  near  finding 
Sam  also,  for  as  he  stood  in  front  of  French's 
Hotel,  he  saw  his  recent  acquaintance  ap- 
proaching, and  quickly  dodged  inside  the  ho- 
tell  till  he  had  passed.  A  bootblack  to  whom 
he  had  been  speaking  followed  him  in  surprise. 

"I  say,  what's  up,  Johnny?"  he  asked.  "Yer 
didn't  see  a  cop,  did  yer?" 

"No,  it's  that  man  that  just  went  by." 

"Who's  he?" 

"He's  the  man  I  ran  away  from,"  said  Sam, 
not  caring  to  tell  the  truth.     > 

"What  would  he  do  if  he  should  catch  you?" 
asked  the  bootblack,  with  curiosity. 

"Lick  me,"  said  Sam,  laconically. 

"Then  you  did  right.  Is  he  going  to  stay 
here  long?" 

"No;  he's  going  away  to-day." 

"Then  you're  safe.  You'd  better  go  the  other 
way  from  him." 

"So  I  will,"  said  Sam.  "Where's  the  park 
I've  heard  so  much  about?" 


The   Young   Outlaw.  139 

"Up  that  way." 

"Is  it  far?" 

"Four  or  five  miles." 

"It's  a  long  way  to  walk." 

"You  can  ride  for  five  cents." 

"Can  I?" 

"Yes;  just  go  over  to  the  Astor  House,  and 
take  the  Sixth  Avenue  cars,  and  they'll  take 
you  there." 

Sam  had  intended  to  spend  his  entire  fifty 
cents  in  buying  dinner  when  the  time  came, 
but  he  thought  he  would  like  to  see  Central 
Park.  Besides,  he  would  be  safe  from  pursuit, 
and  the  punishment  which  he  felt  he  deserved. 
Following  the  directions  of  his  boy  friend,  he 
entered  a  Sixth  Avenue  car,  and  in  a  little  less 
than  an  hour  was  set  down  at  one  of  the  gates 
of  the  park.  He  entered  with  a  number  of 
others,  and  followed  the  path  that  seemed  most 
convenient,  coming  out  at  last  at  the  lake. 
Until  now  Sam  had  thought  rather  slightingly 
of  the  park.  Green  fields  were  no  novelty  to 
him,  but  he  admired  the  lake,  with  the  boats 
that  plied  over  its  surface  filled  with  lively 
passengers.     He    would    have    invested    ten 


140  The   Young   Outlaw. 

cents  in  a  passage  ticket;  but  he  felt  that  if 
he  did  this,  he  must  sacrifice  a  part  of  his  in- 
tended dinner,  and  Sam  was  growing  prudent. 
He  wandered  about  the  park  two  or  three 
hours,  sitting  down  at  times  on  the  benches 
that  are  to  be  found  here  and  there  for  the 
convenience  of  visitors.  He  felt  ready  to  go 
back;  but  it  was  only  noon,  and  he  was  not 
sure  but  he  might  fall  in  with  the  gentleman 
from  Illinois,  whom  he  had  left  at  the  entrance 
of  the  Tombs. 

He  was  destined  to  meet  an  acquaintance, 
but  this  time  it  was  some  one  that  had  cheated 
him.  Looking  up  from  the  bench  on  which 
he  was  seated,  he  saw  his  host  of  the  preced- 
ing night,  Mr.  Clarence  Brown,  lounging 
along,  smoking  a  cigar,  with  a  look  of  placid 
contentment  on  his  face. 

"That  cigar  was  bought  with  my  money," 
thought  Sam,  bitterly;  and  in  this  conclusion 
be  was  right. 

Sam  jumped  from  his  seat,  and  advanced 
to  meet  his  enemy. 

'Took  here,  Mr.  Brown !" 

Clarence  Brown  started  as  he  saw  who  a& 


The   Young   Outlaw.  141 

Iressed  him,  for  he  was  far  from  expecting 
to  meet  Sam  here.  He  saw  from  the  boy's 
looks  that  he  was  suspected  of  robbing  him, 
and  decided  upon  his  course. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  said,  smiling.  "How 
do  you  like  the  park?" 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  said  Sam,  impa« 
fciently.     "I  want  my  money." 

Mr.  Brown  arched  his  eyes  in  surprise. 

"Eeally,  my  young  friend,  I  don't  compre- 
hend you,"  he  said,  withdrawing  his  cigar  from 
his  mouth.  "You  speak  as  if  I  owed  you  some 
money." 

"Quit  fooling!"  said  Sam,  provoked  at  the 
other's  coolness.  "I  want  that  money  you  took 
from  me  while  I  was  asleep  last  night." 

"It  strikes  me  you  have  been  dreaming," 
said  Brown,  composedly.  "I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  your  money.  How  much  did  you 
Uave?" 

^Nearly  seven  dollars." 

*&re  you  sure  you  had  it  when  you  went  t& 
ded?" 

"Yes.    I  kepi  \i  in  my  vest  Docket." 


142  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"That  was  careless.  You  should  have  con- 
cealed  it  somewhere.  I  would  have  kept  it 
for  you  if  you  had  asked  me." 

"I  dare  say  you  would,"  said  Sam,  with  with- 
ering  sarcasm. 

"Certainly,  I  wouldn't  refuse  so  small  a  fa- 
vor." 

"Are  you  sure  you  didn't  keep  it  for  me?" 
said  Sam. 

"How  could  I,  when  you  didn't  give  it  to 
me?"  returned  the  other,  innocently. 

"If  you  didn't  take  it,"  said  Sam,  rather  stag- 
gered by  the  other's  manner,  "where  did  it  go 
to?" 

"I  don't  know,  of  course;  but  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  it  fell  out  of  your  vest  pocket 
among  the  bed  clothes.    Did  you  look?" 

"Yes." 

"You  might  have  overlooked  it." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Sam,  thoughtfully. 

He  began  to  think  he  had  suspected  Mr. 
Brown  unjustly.  Otherwise,  how  could  he  be 
so  cool  about  it? 

"I  am  really  sorry  for  your  loss,"  said 
Brown,  in  a  tone  Gf  sympathy;  "all  the  more 


The   Young   Outlaw.  143 

so,  because  I  am  hard  up  myself.  I  wish  I 
had  seven  dollars  to  lend  you." 

"I  wish  you  had,"  muttered  Sam.  "I  can't 
get  along  without  money." 

"Did  you  have  any  breakfast?" 

"Yes." 

Sam  did  not  furnish  particulars,  not  liking 
to  acknowledge  the  treatment  he  had  received. 

"Oh,  you'll  get  along,"  said  Brown,  cheer- 
fully. "Come  and  lodge  with  me  again  to- 
night." 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  will,"  said  Sam, 
reflecting  that  he  had  no  money  to  lose  now, 
as  he  intended  to  spend  all  he  had  for  dinner. 

"Sit  down  and  let  us  have  a  friendly  chat," 
said  Clarence  Brown.  "Won't  you  have  a 
cigar?  I've  got  an  extra  one." 

"I  never  smoked,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  it's  time  you  learned.  Shall  I  show 
you  how?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

The  fact  is,  our  badly  behaved  hero  had  long 
cherished  a  desire  to  see  how  it  seemed  to 
smoke  a  cigar ;  but  in  the  country  he  had  never 
had  the  opportunity.     In  the  city  he  was  mas- 


144  The    Young   Outlaw. 

ter  of  his  own  actions,  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  would  never  have  a  better  opportunity. 
Hence  his  affirmative  answer. 

Clarence  Brown  smiled  slightly  to  himself, 
for  he  anticipated  fun.  He  produced  the 
cigar,  lighted  it  by  his  own,  and  gave  Sam  di- 
rections how  to  smoke.  Sam  proved  an  apt 
pupil,  and  was  soon  puffing  away  with  con- 
scious pride.  He  felt  himself  several  years 
older.  But  all  at  once  he  turned  pale,  and 
drew  the  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Brown,  de- 
murely. 

"I — don't — know,"  gasped  Sam,  his  eyes 
rolling;  "I — feel — sick." 

"Do  you?  Don't  mind  it;  it'll  pass  off." 

"I  think  I'm  going  to  die,"  said  Sam,  in  a 
hollow  voice.  "Does  smoking  ever  kill  peo- 
ple?" 

"Not  often,"  said  Brown,  soothingly. 

"I  think  it's  goin'  to  kill  me,"  said  Sam, 
mournfully. 

"Lie  down  on  the  bench.  You'll  feel  better 
soon." 

Sam  lay  down  on  his  back,  and  again  he 


The   Young   Outlaw.  145. 

wished  himself  safely  back  at  the  deacon's. 
New  York  seemed  to  him  a  very  dreadful  place. 
His  head  ached;  his  stomach  was  out  of  tune, 
and  he  felt  very  unhappy. 

"Lie  here  a  little  while,  and  you'll  feel  bet- 
ter," said  his  companion.     "I'll  be  back  soon." 

He  walked  away  to  indulge  in  a  laugh  at 
his  victim's  expense,  and  Sam  was  left  alone 


146  The   Young   Outlaw, 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TIM  BRADY. 

An  hour  passed,  and  Clarence  Brown  did 
not  reappear.  He  had  intended  to  do  so,  but 
reflecting  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  got  out 
of  Sam,  changed  his  mind. 

Sam  lay  down  on  the  bench  for  some  time, 
then  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture.  He 
did  not  feel  so  sick  as  at  first,  but  his  head 
ached  unpleasantly. 

"I  won't  smoke  any  more,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "I  didn't  think  it  would  make  me  feel 
so  bad." 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Sam  did  not  keep 
the  resolution  he  then  made;  but  at  the  time 
when  he  is  first  introduced  to  the  reader,  in 
the  first  chapter,  had  become  a  confirmed 
smoker. 

"Why  don't  Mr.  Brown  come  back?"  he 
thought,  after  the  lapse  of  an  hour. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  147 

He  waited  half  an  hour  longer,  when  he  was 
brought  to  the  conviction  that  Brown  had 
played  him  false,  and  was  not  coming  back  at 
all.  With  this  conviction  his  original  suspi- 
cion revived,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
Brown  had  robbed  him  after  all. 

"I'd  like  to  punch  his  head,"  thought  Sam, 
angrily. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  deacon,  from 
whom  the  money  was  originally  taken,  had 
the  same  right  to  punch  his  head.  As  I  have 
said,  Sam's  conscience  was  not  sensitive,  and 
self-interest  blinded  him  to  the  character  of 
his  own  conduct. 

His  experience  in  smoking  had  given  him  a 
distaste  for  the  park,  for  this  afternoon  at 
least,  and  he  made  his  way  to  the  horse  cars 
determined  to  return.  It  did  make  him  feel 
a  little  forlorn  to  reflect  that  he  had  no  place 
to  return  to;  no  home  but  the  streets.  He 
had  not  yet  contracted  that  vagabond  feeling 
that  makes  even  them  seem  homelike  to  the 
hundreds  of  homeless  children  who  wander 
about  in  them  by  day  and  by  night. 

He  was  in  due  time  landed  at  the  Astor 


148  The    Young   Outlaw. 

House.  It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since 
breakfast.  But  for  the  cigar,  he  would  have 
had  a  hearty  appetite.  As  it  was,  he  felt  faint, 
and  thought  he  should  relish  some  tea  and 
toast.  He  made  his  way,  therefore,  to  a  res- 
taurant in  Fulton  Street,  between  Broadway 
and  Nassau  Street.  It  was  a  very  respectable 
place,  but  at  that  time  in  the  afternoon  there 
were  few  at  the  tables.  Sam  had  forty  cents 
left.  He  found  that  this  would  allow  him  to 
buy  a  cup  of  tea,  a  plate  of  beefsteak,  a  plate 
of  toast,  and  a  piece  of  pie.  He  disposed  of 
them,  and  going  up  to  the  desk  paid  his  bill. 
Again  he  found  himself  penniless. 

"I  wonder  where  I  am  going  to  sleep,"  he 
thought.  "I  guess  I'll  ask  some  bootblacks 
where  they  live.  They  can't  afford  to  pay 
much." 

The  tea  made  his  head  feel  better;  and, 
though  he  was  penniless,  he  began  to  feel  more 
cheerful  than  an  hour  before. 

He  wandered  about  till  he  got  tired,  lean- 
ing against  a  building  sometimes.  He  began 
to  feel  lonely.     He  knew  nobody  in  the  great 


The   Young   Outlaw.  149 

city  except  Clarence  Brown,  whom  he  did  not 
care  to  meet  again,  and  the  bootblack  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  made  the  day  before. 

"I  wish  I  had  some  other  boy  with  me," 
thought  Sam;  "somebody  I  knew.  It's  awful 
lonesome." 

Sam  was  social  by  temperament  and  looked 
about  him  to  see  if  he  could  not  make  some 
one's  acquaintance.  Sitting  on  the  same 
bench  with  him — for  he  was  in  City  Hall  Park 
— was  a  boy  of  about  his  own  age,  apparently. 
To  him  Sam  determined  to  make  friendly 
overtures. 

"What  is  your  name,  boy?"  asked  Sam. 

The  other  boy  looked  around  at  him.  He 
was  very  much  freckled,  and  had  a  sharp  look 
which  made  him  appear  preternaturally  old. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  anybody  here.  I'd  like  to 
get  acquainted." 

The  street  boy  regarded  him  attentively  to 
see  if  he  were  in  earnest,  and  answered,  after 
a  pause,  "My  name  is  Tim  Brady.  What's 
yours?" 

"Sam  Barker." 


150  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Nowhere,"  said  Sam.  "I  haven't  got  any 
home,  nor  any  money." 

"That's  nothing!"  said  Tim.  "No  more 
have  I." 

"Haven't  you?"  said  Sam,  surprised.  "Then 
where  are  you  going  to  sleep  to-night?" 

"I  know  an  old  wagon,  up  an  alley,  where 
I  can  sleep  like  a  top." 

"Ain't  you  afraid  of  taking  cold,  sleeping 
out  of  doors?"  asked  Sam,  who,  poor  as  he 
had  always  been,  had  never  been  without  a 
roof  to  cover  him. 

"Take  cold!"  repeated  the  boy,  scornfully. 
"I  ain't  a  baby.  I  don't  take  cold  in  the  sum- 
mer." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  could  sleep  in  a 
wagon." 

"Oh,  I  can  sleep  anywhere,"  said  Tim.  "It 
makes  no  difference  to  me  where  I  curl  up." 

"Is  there  room  enough  in  the  wagon  for 
me?"  asked  Sam. 

"Yes,  unless  some  other  chap  gets  ahead  of 
us." 

"May  I  go  with  you?" 


The   Young   Outlaw.  151 

"la  course  you  can/' 

"Suppose  we  find  somebody  else  ahead  of 
as?" 

"Theu  we'll  go  somewhere  else.  There's 
plenty  of  places.  I  say,  Johnny,  haven't  you 
got  no  stamps  at  all?" 

"Stamps?" 

"Yes,  money.  Don't  you  know  what  stamps 
is?" 

"No.    I  spent  my  last  cent  for  supper." 

"If  you'd  got  thirty  cents  we'd  go  to  the  the- 
atre." 

"Is  it  good?" 

"You  bet!" 

"Then  I  wish  I  had  money  enough  to  go. 
I  never  went  to  the  theatre  in  my  life." 

"You  didn't !  Where  was  you  raised?"  said 
Tim,  contemptuously. 

"In  the  country." 

"I  thought  so." 

"They  don't  have  theatres  in  the  country. " 

"Then  I  wouldn't  live  there.  It  must  be 
awful  dull  there." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Sam.  "That's  why  I  raa 
away." 


152  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Did  you  run  away?"  asked  Tim,  interested. 
"Was  it  from  the  old  man?" 

"It  was  from  the  man  I  worked  for.  He 
wanted  me  to  work  all  the  time,  and  I  got  tired 
of  it." 

"What  sort  of  work  was  it?"  asked  Tim. 

"It  was  on  a  farm.  I  had  to  hoe  potatoes, 
split  wood,  and  such  things." 

"I  wouldn't  like  it.  It's  a  good  deal  more 
jolly  bein'  in  the  city." 

"If  you've  only  got  money  enough  to  get 
along,"  added  Sam. 

"Oh,  you  can  earn  money." 

"How?"  asked  Sam,  eagerly. 

"Different  ways." 

"How  do  you  make  a  livin'?" 

"Sometimes  I  black  boots,  sometimes  I  sell 
papers,  then  again,  I  smash  baggage." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Sam,  bewildered. 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  exclaimed  Tim.  "You're 
from  the  country.  I  loaf  around  the  depots 
and  steamboat  landin's,  and  carry  carpetbags 
and  such  things  for  pay." 

"Is  that  smashing  baggage?" 

"To  be  sure," 


The   Young   Outlaw.  153 

"I  could  do  that,"  said  Sam,  thoughtfully. 
"Can  you  make  much  that  way?" 

"  Tends  on  how  many  jobs  you  get,  and 
whether  the  cove's  liberal.  Wimmen's  the 
wust.  They'll  beat  a  chap  down  to  nothin', 
if  they  can." 

"How  much  do  you  get,  anyway,  for  carry- 
ing a  bundle?" 

"I  axes  fifty  cents,  and  generally  gets  a  quar- 
ter. The  wimmen  don't  want  to  pay  more'n 
ten  cents." 

"I  guess  I'll  try  it  to-morrow,  if  you'll  tell 
me  where  to  go." 

"You  can  go  along  of  me.  I'm  goin'  smash- 
in'  myself  to-morrer." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sam.  "I'm  glad  I  met 
you.  You  see  I  don't  know  much  about  the 
city." 

"Didn't  you  bring  no  money  with  you?" 

"Yes,  but  it  was  stolen." 

"Was  your  pockets  picked?" 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it.  I  was  robbed  in  my 
sleep." 

So  Sam  told  the  story  of  his  adventure  with 
Clarence  Brown.     Tim  listened  attentively. 


154  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"He  was  smart,  he  was,"  said  Tim,  approv* 
ingly. 

"He's  a  rascal,"  said  Sam,  hotly,  who  did 
not  relish  having  his  spoiler  praised. 

"Course  he  is,  but  he's  smart,  too.  You 
might  a  knowed  he'd  do  it." 

"How  should  I  know?  I  thought  he  was 
a  kind  man,  that  wanted  to  do  me  a  favor." 

Tim  burst  out  laughing. 

"Ain't  you  green,  though?"  he  remarked. 
"Oh,  my  eye,  but  you're  jolly  green." 

"Am  I?"  said  Sam,  rather  offended.  "Is 
everybody  a  thief  in  New  York?" 

"Most  everybody,  if  they  gets  a  chance," 
said  Tim,  coolly.  "Didn't  you  ever  steal  your- 
self?" 

Sam  colored.  He  had  temporarily  forgot- 
ten the  little  adventure  that  preceded  his  de- 
parture from  his  country  home.  After  all,  why 
should  he  be  so  angry  with  Clarence  Brown 
for  doing  the  very  same  thing  he  had  done  him- 
self? Why,  indeed?  But  Sam  had  an  an- 
swer ready.  The  deacon  did  not  need  the 
money,  while  he  could  not  get  along  very  well 
without  it.     So  it  was  meaner  in   Clarence 


The    Young   Outlaw.  155 

Brown  to  take  all  he  had  than  in  him  to  take 
what  the  deacon  could  so  well  spare. 

I  hope  my  readers  understand  that  this  was 
very  flimsy  and  unsatisfactory  reasoning. 
Stealing  is  stealing,  under  whatever  circum- 
stances. At  any  rate  Sam  found  it  inconven- 
ient to  answer  Tim's  pointed  question. 

They  talked  a  while  longer,  and  then  his 
companion  arose  from  the  bench. 

"Come  along,  Johnny,"  he  said.  "Let's  go 
to  roost." 

"All  right,"  said  Sam,  and  the  two  left  the; 
park. 


156  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

SAM     TURNS    IMPOSTOR. 

Tim  conducted  our  hero  to  an  alleyway,  not 
far  from  the  North  River,  in  which  an  Did 
wagon  had  come  to  temporary  anchor. 

"This  is  my  hotel,"  he  said.  "I  like  it  'cause 
it's  cheap.  They  don't  trouble  you  with  no 
bills  here.     Tumble  in." 

Tim,  without  further  ceremony,  laid  him- 
self down  on  the  floor  of  the  wagon,  and  Sam 
followed  his  example.  There  is  everything  in 
getting  used  to  things,  and  that  is  where  Tim 
had  the  advantage.  He  did  not  mind  the  hard- 
ness of  his  couch,  while  Sam,  who  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  a  regular  bed,  did.  He 
moved  from  one  side  to  another,  and  then  lay 
on  his  back,  seeking  sleep  in  vain. 

"What's  up?'"  muttered  Tim,  sleepily. 
**Why  don't  you  shut  your  peepers?" 


The   Young   Outlaw.  157 

"The  boards  are  awful  hard,"  Sam  com' 
plained. 

"It  ain't  nothin'  when  you're  used  to  it,** 
said  Tim.  "You  go  to  sleep,  and  you  won't 
mind  it." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  said  Sam,  turning  again. 

Finally  he  succeeded  in  getting  to  sleep,  but 
not  till  some  time  after  his  companion.  He 
slept  pretty  well,  however,  and  did  not  awaken 
till,  at  six  o'clock,  he  was  shaken  by  his  com- 
panion. 

"What's  the  matter?  Where  am  I?"  asked 
Sam,  feeling  bewildered  at  first. 

"Why,  here  you  are,  in  course,"  said  the 
matter-of-fact  Tim.  "Did  you  think  you  was 
in  the  station-house?" 

"No,  I  hope  not,"  answered  Sam.  "What 
time  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  A  chap  stole  my  watch  in 
the  night.  I  guess  it's  after  six.  Have  yon 
$ot  any  stamps?" 

"No." 

"Nor  I.  We've  got  to  stir  around,  and 
earn  some  breakfast." 

"How'll  we  do  it?" 


158  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"We'll  go  down  to  the  pier,  and  wait  for  the 
Boston  boat.  Maybe  we'll  get  a  chance  to 
smash  some  baggage." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Sam,  "for  I'm  hungry." 

"I'm  troubled  that  way  myself,"  said  Tim. 
"Come  along." 

When  they  reached  the  pier,  they  found  a 
number  of  boys,  men,  and  hack-drivers  already 
in  waiting.  They  had  to  wait  about  half  an 
hour,  when  they  saw  the  great  steamer  slowly 
approaching  the  wharf. 

Instantly  Tim  was  on  the  alert. 

"When  they  begin  to  come  ashore,  you  must 
go  in  and  try  your  luck.     Just  do  as  I  do." 

This  Sam  resolved  to  do. 

A  tall  man  emerged  from  the  steamer,  bear- 
ing a  carpetbag. 

"Smash  your  baggage?"  said  Tim. 

"No,  I  think  not.     I  can  carry  it  myself." 

"I  haven't  had  any  breakfast,"  said  Tim, 
screwing  up  his  freckled  features  into  an  ex- 
pression of  patient  suffering. 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling. 

"You've  got  money  to  buy  some,  and  I 
haven't,"  said  Tim,  keeping  at  his  side. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  159 

"Well,  you  may  carry  it,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, good-naturedly. 

Tim  turned  half  around,  and  winked  at 
Sam,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Did  you  see  how  1 
did  it?" 

Sam  was  quick  enough  to  take  the  hint 

"Smash  your  carpetbag?"  he  asked,  of  a  mid- 
dle-aged lady,  imitating  as  closely  as  possible 
Tim's  professional  accent. 

"What?"  asked  the  lady,  startled. 

"She  don't  understand,"  thought  Sam. 
"Let  me  carry  it  for  you,  ma'am." 

"I  do  not  need  it.  I  am  going  to  take  a 
cab." 

"Let  me  take  it  to  the  cab,"  persisted  Sam ; 
but  he  was  forestalled  by  a  hack-driver,  who 
had  heard  the  lady's  remark. 

"Let  me  take  it,  ma'am,"  he  said,  thrusting 
Sam  aside.  "I've  got  a  nice  carriage  just 
outside.  Take  you  anywhere  you  want  to 
go." 

So  the  lady  was  carried  away,  and  Sam  had 
to  make  a  second  application.  This  time  he 
addressed  himself  to  a  gentleman  whose  little 
daughter  walked  by  his  side. 


160  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"No,"  said  the  gentleman ;  "the  carpetbag  ia 
small.     I  don't  need  help." 

The  smallness  of  the  bag,  by  the  way,  was 
one  reason  why  Sam,  who  did  not  like 
heavy  bundles,  wanted  to  carry  it.  He  felt 
that  it  was  time  to  practice  on  the  stranger's 
feelings. 

"I  want  to  earn  some  money  to  buy  bread 
ior  my  mother,"  he  whined,  in  a  very  credit- 
able manner,  considering  how  inexperienced 
he  was. 

This  attracted  the  attention  of  the  little  girl, 
who,  like  most  little  girls,  had  a  tender  and 
compassionate  heart. 

"Is  your  mother  poor?"  she  asked. 

"Very  poor,"  said  Sam.  "She  hasn't  got  a 
bent  to  buy  bread  for  the  children." 

"Have  you  got  many  brothers  and  sisters?" 
a^ked  the  little  girl,  her  voice  full  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"Five,"  answered  Sam,  piteously. 

aOh,  papa,"  said  the  little  girl,  "let  him  take 
your  carpetbag.  Think  of  it,  his  mother 
%aan't  got  anything  to  eat." 

*<Well,  Clara,"  said  her  father,  indulgently, 


The   Young   Outlaw. 

"I  suppose   I   must  gratify   you.     Here, 
take  the  bag,  and  carry  it  carefully." 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  Sam,  cheerfully. 

"I  guess  I  can  get  along,"  he  thought,  com- 
placently.    "That's  a  good  dodge." 

"When  we  get  to  Broadway  we'll  take  the 
car,"  said  the  gentleman.  "Take  hold  of  my 
hand,  tight,  Clara,  while  we  cross  the  street." 

Clara  seemed  disposed  to  be  sociable,  and 
entered  into  conversation  with  the  young  bag- 
gage-smasher. 

"Are  your  brothers  and  sisters  younger 
than  you  are?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"How  many  of  them  are  boys?" 

"There's  two  boys  besides  me,  and  three 
girls,"  said  Sam,  readily. 

"What  are  their  names?"  asked  Clara. 

"Why,"  answered  Sam,  hesitating  a  little, 
"there's  Tom,  and  Jim,  and  John,  and  Sarah 
and  Maggie." 

"I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,"  said  Clara* 
puzzled.  "Just  now  you  said  there  were  three 
girls  and  only  two  boys." 


1 62  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Did  I?"  said  Sam,  rather  abashed.  "] 
didn't  think  what  I  was  saying." 

"Isn't  your  father  alive?"  asked  the  little 
girl. 

"No;  he's  dead." 

"And  do  you  have  to  support  the  family?" 

"Yes ;  except  what  mother  does." 

"What  does  she  do?" 

"Oh,  she  goes  out  washing." 

"Poor  boy,  I  suppose  you  have  a  hard  time?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam;  "some  days  we  don't  get 
anything  to  eat." 

"Oh,  papa,  isn't  it  dreadful?"  said  Clara,  her 
warm  little  heart  throbbing  with  sympathy. 

Her  father  was  less  credulous,  and  he  was 
struck  by  Sam's  hearty  appearance.  Cer- 
tainly he  looked  very  unlike  a  boy  who  did  not 
have  enough  to  eat. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  suffered  much 
from  hunger,  my  boy,"  said  he,  with  a  pene- 
trating look. 

"I  had  a  good  dinner  yesterday,"  said  Sam. 
"A  gentleman  gave  me  some  money  for  showing 
him  the  way  to  the  Tribune  office." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  163 

"On©  dinner  seems  to  have  done  you  a  great 
deal  of  good/'  said  the  man. 

"It  alw&ys  does  me  good,"  said  Sam,  and 
here  he  had  no  occasion  to  tell  a  falsehood. 

"I  hope  yon  carried  some  of  the  money  home 
to  your  mother,  and  brothers  and  sisters." 

"Yes,  I  did  \  I  bought  some  meat,  and  mother 
cooked  it.    "W<e  don't  often  have  meat." 

"Perhaps  I  am  doing    the    boy  injustice," 
thought  Mr.  Glenham,  for  this  was  his  name. 

As  for  Clara,  her  childish  sympathies  were 
fully  aroused. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  "may  I  give  this  poor  boy 
the  half-dollar  Aunt  Lucy  gave  me?" 

"I  thought  you  had  arranged  some  way  of 
spending  it,  Clara?" 

"So  I  had,  papa ;  but  I'd  rather  give  it  to  this 
poor  boy." 

"You  may  do  as  you  like,  my  darling,"  said 
her  father,  tenderly. 

"Here,  boy,  take  this  home  to  your  mother," 
said  Clara. 

My  readers  have  probably  inferred  already 
that  Sam  was  not  a  boy  of  very  high  principles. 
but  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he 


164  The    Young   Outlaw. 

felt  ashamed  to  take  the  money  tendered  him 
by  the  little  girl  upon  whom  he  had  imposed 
by  his  false  story. 

"I  don't  like  to  take  your  money,"  he  said, 
hanging  back. 

"But  I  want  you  to,"  said  Clara,  eagerly. 
"I'd  a  great  deal  rather  your  mother  would 
have  it." 

"You  may  take  it,"  said  Mr.  Glenham,  who 
was  disposed  to  regard  Sam  with  greater  favor, 
on  account  of  the  reluctance  he  exhibited  to 
profit  by  Clara's  compassion. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sam,  no  longer  withhold- 
ing his  hand.     "You  are  very  kind." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  Broadway, 
and  Sam  delivered  up  the  bag. 

Mr.  Glenham  handed  him  a  quarter. 

"That  is  for  your  trouble,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

Sam  was  elated  over  his  good  fortune. 

"Seventy-five  cents!"  he  said  to  himself. 
"That's  what  I  call  luck.  I  don't  believe  Tim's 
done  so  well.  It  ain't  so  hard  to  make  your 
living  in  New  York,  after  all.  I  guess  I'll  gQ 
and  get  some  breakfast." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  165 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HOW  SAM  FARED. 

On  the  strength  of  his  good  luck,  Sam  pro- 
vided himself  with  a  good  breakfast,  which 
cost  him  forty  cents.  He  felt  pretty  sure  of 
earning  something  more  during  the  day  to  add 
to  the  remaining  thirty-five.  But  fortune  is 
capricious,  and  our  hero  found  all  his  offers  of 
service  firmly  refused.  He  tried  again  to  ex- 
cite compassion  by  his  fictitious  story  of  a 
starving  family  at  home ;  but  his  appeals  were 
made  to  the  flinty-hearted  or  the  incredulous. 
So,  about  two  o'clock,  he  went  to  dinner,  and 
spent  the  remainder  of  his  money. 

Again  he  spent  the  night  with  Tim  in  the 
wagon,  and  again  in  the  morning  he  set  out  to 
earn  his  breakfast.  But  luck  was  against  him. 
People  insisted  on  carrying  their  own  carpet- 
bags, to  the  great  detriment  of  the  baggage* 


1 66  The   Young   Outlaw. 

smashing  business.  Tim  was  no  luckier  than 
Sam.  About  ten  o'clock  they  were  walking  de- 
spondently through  a  side  street,  discussing 
ways  and  means. 

"I'm  awful  hungry,  Tim,"  said  Sam,  mourn- 
fully. 

"So  am  I,  you  bet !" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  if  I  had  a  couple  of  ap- 
ples," said  Sam,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  an  old 
woman's  apple-stand.     "Wouldn't  she  trust?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Tim.  "You  try  her,  if  you 
want  to." 

"I  will,"  said  Sam,  desperately. 

The  two  boys  approached  the  apple-stand. 

"I  say,"  said  Sam  to  the  wrinkled  old  woman 
who  presided  over  it,  "how  do  you  sell  your  ap- 
ples?" 

"A  penny  apiece,"  she  answered,  in  a 
cracked  voice.     "Is  that  cheap  enough  for  ye?" 

"I'll  take  five "  said  Sam. 

The  old  woman  began  eagerly  to  pick  out  the 
required  number,  but  stopped  short  when  he 
finished  the  sentence — "if  you'll  trust  me  till 
afternoon." 

"Is  it  trust  ye?"  she  ejaculated,  suspiciously. 


The  Young   Outlaw.  167 

"No  farther  than  I  can  see  yer.  I'm  up  to  your 
tricks,  you  young  spalpeen,  thryin'  to  chate 
a  poor  widder  out  of  her  money." 

"I'll  pay  you  sure,"  said  Sam,  "but  I  haven't 
earned  anything  yet  to-day." 

"Then  it's  I  that  can't  be  supportin'  a  big, 
strong  boy  like  you.  Go  away  and  come  back 
whin  you've  got  money." 

Here  Tim  broke  in. 

"My  friend  always  pays  his  bills,"  he  said. 
"You  needn't  be  afraid  to  trust  him." 

"And  who  are  you?"  asked  the  old  woman. 
"I  don't  know  you,  and  I  can't  take  your 
word.  You're  tryin'  the  two  of  you  to  swin- 
dle a  poor  widder." 

"My  father's  an  alderman,"  said  Tim,  giv- 
ing the  wink  to  Sam. 

"Is  he  now?  Thin,  let  him  lind  your  friend 
money,  and  don't  ask  a  poor  woman  to  trust." 

"Well,  I  would,  but  he's  gone  to  Washing- 
ton on  business." 

"Thin  go  after  him,  aDd  lave  me  alone.  I 
don't  want  no  spalpeens  like  you  round  my 
apple-stand." 

"Look  here,  old  woman,  I'll  have  you  ar- 


168  The    Young   Outlaw. 

rested  for  call  in'  me  names.  Come  away, 
Sam ;  her  apples  are  rotten  anyhow." 

The  old  woman  began  to  berate  them 
soundly,  indignant  at  this  attack  upon  her 
wares,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  the  two  boys 
walked  off. 

"We  didn't  make  much,"  said  Sam.  "I'm 
awful  hungry." 

"Take  that,  then,"  said  Tim,  pulling  an  ap- 
ple out  of  his  pocket. 

Sam  opened  his  eyes. 

"How  did  you  get  it?"  he  asked  in  aston- 
ishment. 

Tim  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

"I  took  it  when  you  were  talkin'  to  the  ould 
woman,"  he  answered;  "and  here's  another." 

So  saying  he  produced  a  companion  apple, 
and  made  a  vigorous  onslaught  upon  it,  Sam 
following  suit. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  do  it,"  said  Sam, 
admiringly,  "and  she  looking  on  all  the  time." 

"It's  easy  enough  when  you  know  how,"  said 
Tim,  complacently. 

"She'd  catch  me,  sure." 

"Likely  she  would ;  you  ain't  used  to  it." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  169 

Sam  ought  to  have  felt  uneasy  at  appropri- 
ating the  result  of  a  theft;  but  his  conscience 
was  an  easy  one,  and  he  felt  hungry.  So  he 
made  short  work  of  the  apple,  and  wished  for 
more. 

"I  wish  you'd  taken  two  apiece,"  he  said. 

"I  couldn't,"  said  Tim.  "She'd  have  seen  'em 
stickin'  out  of  my  pocket,  and  called  a  cop." 

"One's  better  than  none;  I  feel  a  little  bet- 
ter," said  Sam,  philosophically.  "I  s'pose  it's 
stealing,  though." 

"Oh,  what's  the  odds?  She'll  never  miss  'em. 
Come  along." 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon  Sam  managed 
to  earn  ten  cents,  and  was  forced  to  content 
himself  with  a  very  economical  dinner.  There 
was  a  place  on  Ann  Street,  where,  for  this 
small  sum,  a  plate  of  meat  and  a  potato  were 
furnished,  but  enough  only  to  whet  the  appe- 
tite of  a  hearty  boy  like  Sam.  A  suspicion  did 
enter  his  mind  as  he  arose  from  the  table  pen- 
niless once  more,  and  his  appetite  still  unsat- 
isfied, that  he  had  bought  his  liberty  dearly, 
if  his  affairs  did  not  improve.  In  the  country 
he  had  enough  to  eat,  a  good  bed  to  sleep 


170  The    Young   Outlaw. 

in,  and  no  care  or  anxiety,  while  he  was  not 
overworked.  Here  there  was  constant  anxi- 
ety, and  he  never  knew  when  he  arose  in  the 
morning  where  his  dinner  was  to  come  from, 
or  whether  he  would  be  able  to  buy  one.  Still 
there  was  a  fascination  in  the  free,  lawless 
life,  and  if  he  could  only  be  sure  of  making 
fifty  cents  a  day  he  would  probably  have  pre- 
ferred it. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  describe  Sam's  life  in 
detail  for  the  next  month.  He  and  Tim  were 
constant  companions;  and  under  Tim's  in- 
struction he  was  rapidly  acquiring  the  pecu- 
liar education  of  a  street  vagabond.  Of  his 
employments  in  that  brief  period  it  would  be 
difficult  to  give  a  complete  list.  At  one  time 
he  blacked  boots  for  another  boy,  to  whom  he 
paid  half  his  receipts,  in  return  for  the  use 
of  the  box  and  blacking.  But  Sam  was  de- 
tected by  his  employer  in  rendering  a  false 
account,  and  was  thrown  upon  his  own  re- 
sources again.  It  would  have  been  much  more 
to  his  interest  to  have  a  blacking-brush  and 
box  of  his  own;  but  whenever  Sam  had  cap- 
ital enough  he  preferred  to  spend  it  for  a  good 


The    Young   Outlaw.  171 

dinner,  so  there  did  not  seem  much  chance  of 
his  getting  ahead.  He  had,  before  this  time, 
been  introduced  to  the  Newsboys'  Lodging 
House,  where  he  was  interrogated  about  his 
past  life  by  the  superintendent.  Sam  was 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  his  imagination 
in  reply,  feeling  that  if  he  spoke  the  truth  he 
would  be  liable  to  be  returned  to  his  country 
home. 

"Are  your  parents  living?"  inquired  Mr. 
O'Connor. 

"No,"  said  Sam,  telling  the  truth  this  time. 

"When  did  they  die?" 

"Two  years  ago." 

"Did  they  die  in  New  York?" 

"Yes,  sir.  They  died  of  smallpox,"  volun- 
teered Sam. 

"And  you  have  been  supporting  yourself 
since  then?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  does  it  happen  that  you  have  not  been 
around  here  before?" 

"I  was  living  with  my  uncle,"  answered 
Sam,  hesitating. 

"Why  have  you  left  him?" 


\Ji  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"He  didn't  treat  me  well." 

"Perhaps  you  didn't  behave  well." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did." 

"What  is  your  uncle's  name?" 

"James  Cooper." 

"Where  does  he  live — in  what  street?" 

"He's  moved  away  from  the  city  now,"  said 
Sam,  feeling  that  he  must  put  a  stop  to  these 
inconvenient  inquiries. 

So  Sam  was  admitted  to  the  privileges  of 
the  lodging  house.  Now  he  found  it  much 
easier  to  get  along.  For  eighteen  cents  a  day 
he  was  provided  with  lodging,  breakfast  and 
Bupper,  and  it  was  not  often  that  he  could  not 
obtain  as  much  as  that.  When  he  could  earn 
enough  more  to  buy  a  "square  meal"  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  and  a  fifteen-cent  ticket  to 
the  gallery  of  the  theatre  in  the  evening,  he 
felt  happy.  He  was  fairly  adrift  in  the  streets 
of  the  great  city,  and  his  future  prospects 
did  not  look  very  brilliant.  It  is  hardly  nec- 
essary to  say  that  in  a  moral  point  of  view  he 
had  deteriorated  rather  than  improved.  In 
fact,  he  was  fast  developing  into  a  social  out- 
law, with  no  particular  scruples  against  lying 


The   Young   Outlaw.  173 

or  stealing.  One  thing  may  be  said  in  his 
favor,  he  never  made  use  of  his  strength  to 
oppress  a  younger  boy.  On  the  whole,  he 
was  good-natured,  and  not  at  all  brutal.  He 
had  on  one  occasion  interfered  successfully 
to  protect  a  young  boy  from  one  of  greater 
strength  who  was  beating  him.  I  like  to  men- 
tion this,  because  I  do  not  like  to  have  it  sup- 
posed that  Sam  was  wholly  bad. 

We  will  now  advance  the  story  some  months, 
and  see  what  they  have  done  for  Sam. 

To  begin  with,  they  have  not  improved  his 
wardrobe.  When  he  first  came  to  the  city  he 
was  neatly  though  coarsely  dressed;  now  his 
clothes  hang  in  rags  about  him,  and,  more- 
over, they  are  begrimed  with  mud  and  grease. 
His  straw  hat  and  he  have  some  time  since 
parted  company,  and  he  now  wears  a  greasy 
article  which  he  picked  up  at  a  second-hand 
store  in  Baxter  Street  for  twenty-five  cents. 
If  Sam  were  troubled  with  vanity,  he  might 
feel  disturbed  by  his  disreputable  condition; 
but  as  he  sees  plenty  of  other  boys  of  his  own 
class  no  better  dressed,  he  thinks  very  little 
about  it.     Such  as  they  are,  his  clothes  are 


174  The    Young   Outlaw. 

getting  too  small  for  him,  for  Sam  has  grown 
a  couple  of  inches  since  he  came  to  the  city. 

Such  was  our  hero's  appearance  when  wne 
day  he  leaned  against  a  building  on  Broad- 
way, and  looked  lazily  at  the  vehicles  passing, 
wishing  vaguely  that  he  had  enough  money 
to  buy  a  square  meal.  A  Broadway  car  was 
passing  at  the  time.  A  small  man,  whose 
wrinkled  face  indicated  that  he  was  over  sixty, 
attempted  to  descend  from  the  car  while  in 
motion.  In  some  way  he  lost  his  footing,  and, 
falling,  managed  to  sprain  his  ankle,  his  hat 
falling  off  and  rolling  along  on  the  pavement. 

Sam,  who  was  always  on  the  lookout  for 
chances,  here  saw  an  opening.  He  dashed  for- 
ward, lifted  the  old  gentleman  to  his  feet  and 
ran  after  his  hat,  and  restored  it. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  I  have  sprained  my  ankle.  Help 
me  upstairs  to  my  office,"  said  the  old  man. 

He  pointed  to  a  staircase  leading  up  from 
the  sidewalk. 

"All  right,"  said  Sam.     "Lean  on  me." 


The    Young   Outlaw.  175 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SAM   GETS  INTO  A   NEW  BUSINESS. 

Sam  helped  the  old  man  up  two  flights  of 
stairs. 

"Shall  we  go  any  farther?"  he  asked. 

"No;  that's  my  office,"  said  his  companion, 
pointing  to  a  door,  over  which  was  No.  10. 
From  his  pocket  he  drew  a  key,  and  opened 
the  door.  Sam  entered  with  him.  The  room 
was  small.  One  corner  was  partitioned  off 
for  an  inner  office.  Inside  was  a  chair,  some- 
thing like  a  barber's  chair,  and  a  table  cov- 
ered with  instruments.  Sam's  curiosity  was 
aroused.  He  wondered  what  sort  of  business 
was  carried  on  here.  He  also  wondered 
whether  he  would  get  anything  for  his  trou- 
ble. 

"If  you  don't  want  me  any  longer,  I'll  go," 
he  said,  by  way  of  a  delicate  hint. 

"Stop  a  minute,"  said  the  old  man,  wh» 


176  The    Young   Outlaw. 

had  limped  to  a  sofa  in  the  outer  office,  and  sat 
down. 

"I  guess  I'll  get  something,"  thought  Sam, 
cheerfully  complying  with  the  request. 

"What  do  you  do  for  a  living?"  asked  the 
old  man. 

"Sometimes  I  black  boots,  sometimes  I  sell 
papers — anything  that'll  pay." 

"What  are  you  doing  now?" 

"Nothing.     Business  ain't  good." 

"Would  you  like  something  to  do?" 

Sam  gave  a  glance  into  the  office,  and  an- 
swered dubiously,  "Yes."  He  was  not  at  all 
clear  about  the  nature  of  the  employment 
likely  to  be  offered. 

"Then  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  a  job.  Do 
you  know  my  business. 

"No,  sir." 

"I'm  a  corn  doctor — you've  heard  of  Dr. 
Felix  Graham,  the  celebrated  corn  doctor, 
haven't  you?"  said  the  old  man,  complacently. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  thinking  that  this  was  the 
answer  expected. 

"I  am  Dr.  Graham,"  said  the  old  man, 
proudly. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  177 

"Are  you?"  said  Sam,  in  some  curiosity. 

"Yes.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to 
do.   Go  and  bring  me  that  pile  of  circulars." 

He  pointed  to  a  pile  of  papers  on  the  floor 
in  the  corner. 

Sam  brought  them  as  directed. 

"Can  you  read?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  sir,  a  little." 

"Read  that  circular." 

Sam  read  as  follows : 

DR.  FELIX  GRAHAM, 

Chiropodist. 

Corns  and  Bunions  Cured  Without  Pain. 

Satisfaction  Guaranteed. 

708  Broadway,,  Room  10." 

Sam  bungled  over  the  word  chiropodist,  but 
was  put  right  by  the  doctor. 

"I  want  a  boy  to  stand  at  the  door,  and  dis- 
tribute these  circulars,"  said  Dr.  Graham. 
"Can  you  do  it?" 

"Of  course,  I  can,"  said  Sam.  "What  pay 
will  I  get?" 

"Ten  cents  a  hundred,"  said  the  doctor; 
"but  you  mustn't  do  as  my  last  boy  did.n 


178  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"How  did  he  do?"  asked  Sam. 

"He  was  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  them  that 
he  gave  half  a  dozen  away  at  a  time.  I  caught 
him  at  it.   He  wanted  to  earn  money  too  fast." 

wHe  was  smart,"  said  Sam,  with  a  grin. 

"I  don't  like  that  kind  of  smartness,"  said 
the  doctor,  sharply.  "I  want  you  to  serve  me 
faithfully." 

"So  I  will,"  said  Sam. 

"You  needn't  give  to  everybody.  There  isn't 
much  use  in  giving  to  children." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But  if  you  see  any  one  walking  as  if  he  had 
corns,  be  sure  to  hand  him  one." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Now  count  off  a  hundred  of  the  circulars, 
and  go  downstairs." 

"All  right,  sir." 

This  was  the  first  regular  employment  Sam 
had  obtained,  and  he  felt  rather  important. 
He  resolved  to  acquit  himself  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  doctor.  In  his  zeal  he  even  deter- 
mined to  improve  upon  his  instructions. 

He  had  no  sooner  taken  his  stand  than  he 
saw  a  gentleman  and  lady  approaching.  They 


The   Young   Outlaw.  179 

were  young,  and,  being  engaged,  were  indulg- 
ing in  conversation  more  interesting  to  them- 
selves than  any  one  else.  The  gentleman  had 
on  a  pair  of  tight  shoes,  and  from  his  style  of 
walking  Sam  concluded  that  he  was  a  suitable 
customer. 

"Here,  sir,"  said  he,  pressing  a  circular  into 
the  young  man's  gloved  hand. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  young  man.  Then 
glancing  at  it,  he  showed  it  with  a  laugh  to  the 
young  lady. 

"Look  here,  boy,"  he  said,  turning  to  Sam, 
"what  made  you  give  me  this?" 

"You  walked  as  if  you'd  got  corns,"  said 
Sam,  honestly.  "Walk  right  up,  and  Dr.  Gra- 
ham will  cure  'em  in  a  jiffy." 

"Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  is  to  become  of 
this  young  lady  while  I  go  up,  Johnny?" 

"Maybe  she's  got  corns,  too,"  said  Sam. 
"She  can  go  up  too." 

Both  the  lady  and  gentleman  laughed  con- 
vulsively, considerably  to  Sam's  surprise,  for 
he  was  not  aware  that  he  had  said  anything 
unusual  or  funny. 


180  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Shall  we  go  up,  Eliza?"  asked  the  young 
man. 

The  only  answer  was  a  laugh,  and  they 
passed  on. 

The  next  one  who  attracted  Sam's  attention 
was  an  elderly  maiden  lady. 

"Have  you  got  corns,  ma'am?"  asked  Sam, 
eagerly. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  lady  was  a 
little  deaf,  and  did  not  understand  Sam's 
question.  Unfortunately  for  herself,  she 
stopped  short,  and  inquired,  "What  did  you 
say?" 

"I  guess  she's  hard  of  hearing,"  Sam  con- 
cluded, and  raising  his  voice  loud  enough  to 
be  heard  across  the  street,  he  repeated  his 
question :   "Have  you  got  corns,  ma'am?" 

At  the  same  time  he  thrust  a  circular  into 
the  hand  of  the  astonished  and  mortified  lady. 

Two  schoolgirls,  just  behind,  heard  the  ques- 
tion, and  laughed  heartily.  The  offended  lady 
dropped  the  paper  as  if  it  were  contamination, 
and  sailed  by,  her  sallow  face  red  with  anger. 

"That's   funny,"    thought    Sam.     "I    don't 


The   Young   Outlaw.  181 

know  what's  got  into  all  the  people.  Seems 
to  me  they're  ashamed  of  havin'  corns." 

The  next  half-dozen  took  circulars,  me- 
chanically glanced  at  them,  and  dropped  them 
indifferently. 

"Guess  they  ain't  got  corns,"  thought  the 
observing  Sam. 

By  and  by  a  countryman  came  along,  and 
into  his  hand  Sam  put  the  circular. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked. 

"It's  corns.  Just  go  upstairs,  and  the  doc- 
tor'll  cure  'em  less'n  no  time." 

"Waal,  I  have  got  two,"  said  the  country- 
man. "They  hurt  like  the  dickens,  too.  What 
does  this  doctor  charge?" 

Sam  did  not  know,  but  he  was  not  the  boy 
to  allow  his  ignorance  to  appear. 

"Ten  cents  apiece,"  he  answered. 

"That's  cheap  enough,  anyway,"  said  he. 
**I've  got  a  good  mind  to  go  up.  Where  is  it?" 

"Come  along.  I'll  show  you,"  said  Sam, 
promptly. 

"I  guess  I  may  as  well.  Are  you  sure  he  can 
cure  'em?" 

"I  ought  to  know,"  said  Sam.    "I  had  one 


182  The    Young    Outlaw. 

about  as  big  as  a  marble  on  my  big  toe.  Thr 
doctor  cured  it  in  a  minute." 

"You  don't  say !     He  must  be  pooty  good." 

"You  bet!  He's  the  great  Dr.  Graham. 
Everybody's  heard  of  him." 

By  such  convincing  assurances  the  man's 
faith  was  increased.  He  followed  Sam  into 
the  doctor's  office. 

"Here,"  said  Sam,  "I've  brought  you  a  cus- 
tomer, Dr.  Graham.  I  told  him  you  could  cure 
his  corns  in  a  jiffy." 

The  doctor  smiled  approvingly. 

"You  are  right  there.  My  friend,  sit  down 
in  this  chair." 

"You  won't  hurt,  will  you,  doctor?"  asked 
the  customer,  glancing  with  a  little  alarm  at 
the  table  with  its  instruments. 

"Oh,  no,  you'll  scarcely  feel  it." 

Sam  returned  to  his  post,  and  began  to  dis- 
tribute handbills  once  more. 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was 
assailed  by  an  angry  voice.  Looking  up,  he 
saw  the  customer  he  had  sent  upstairs. 

"Look  here,  boy,"  he  said,  angrily;  "you  told 
me  a  lie." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  183 

"How  did  I?"  asked  Sam. 

"You  told  me  the  doctor  only  charged  ten 
cents  for  each  corn.  Jerusalem!  he  made  me 
fork  out  a  dollar." 

Sam  was  rather  surprised  himself  at  the 
price. 

"I  guess  they  was  tough  ones,  mister,"  he 
said.   "He  cured  'em,  didn't  he?" 

"Ye— es." 

"Then  it's  worth  the  money.  You  don't 
want  'em  back,  do  you?" 

"No,"  admitted  the  other;  "but  it's  a  thun- 
derin'  sight  to  pay,"  and  he  went  off  grum- 
bling. 

"Don't  the  doctor  make  money,  though?" 
thought  Sam.  "He'd  orter  give  me  a  commis- 
sion on  them  two  dollars." 


S84  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

SAM  OBTAINS  A  PLACE. 

Having  disposed  of  his  circulars,  Sam  went 
up  to  the  office. 

"Have  you  distributed  all  the  circulars?" 
asked  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  here's  the  ten  cents  I  promised  you." 

Sam  took  it,  but  stood  his  ground. 

"I  sent  you  up  a  customer,"  he  said. 

"A  patient;  yes." 

"And  you  made  two  dollars  out  of  him." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"He  did." 

"I  charged  him  my  regular  price.  What  of 
that?"  asked  the  doctor,  not  comprehending 
Sam's  meaning. 

"He  wouldn't  have  come  up  if  it  hadn't 


The   Young   Outlaw.  185 

been  for  me.  I  think  I'd  ought  to  have  a  com- 
mission." 

"Oh,  that's  it,"  said  the  doctor.  "That 
doesn't  follow.  He  came  up  because  of  the  cir- 
cular." 

"No,  he  didn't,"  said  Sam.  "He  came  up  be- 
cause I  told  him  what  a  great  doctor  you  was." 

The  doctor  thought  over  Sam's  proposal, 
and,  being  a  sharp  man,  he  decided  that  it  was 
for  his  advantage  to  secure  an  alliance  with 
him. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "You  are  entitled 
to  something." 

Sam  brightened  up. 

"Here  is  a  quarter  in  addition  to  the  ten 
cents  I  just  gave  you." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Sam,  gratified. 

"Shall  I  go  down,  and  give  away  some  more 
circulars?"  he  asked. 

"Yes ;  I'll  give  you  another  hundred.  Don't 
give  them  away  too  fast.  It's  of  no  use  to  give 
to  children." 

"All  right,  sir." 

So  Sam  went  down  into  the  street.  The  first 
passerby  was  a  boy  of  twelve. 


1 86  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Give  me  one  of  them  papers,"  he  said. 

Eather  to  his  surprise,  Sam  did  not  immedi- 
ately comply.   He  first  asked  a  question. 

"Have  you  got  a  dollar?" 

"A  dollar !  You  don't  want  a  dollar  for  that 
paper,  do  you?" 

"No;  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  waste  it  on  you 
unless  you've  got  a  dollar." 

"What  do  I  want  of  a  dollar?"  asked  the 
boy,  surprised. 

"To  pay  for  havin'  your  corn  cured." 

The  boy  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"I  ain't  got  no  corns,"  he  said. 

"Then  go  along,  and  don't  bother  me.  You're 
no  good." 

A  young  dandy  advanced,  dressed  in  the 
height  of  fashion,  swinging  a  light  cane  in  his 
lavender-gloved  hand.  A  rose  was  in  his 
button-hole,  and  he  was  just  in  the  act  of 
saluting  a  young  lady,  when  Sam  thrust  a  cir- 
cular into  his  hand. 

"Go  right  upstairs,"  he  said,  "and  get  your 
corns  cured.   Only  a  dollar." 

The  young  lady  burst  into  a  ringing  laugh, 
&nd  the  dandy  reddened  with  mortification. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  187 

"Keep  your  dirty  paper  to  yourself,  boy," 
he  said.  "I  am  not  troubled  with  those — ah, 
excrescences." 

"I  never  heard  of  them  things,"  said  Sam. 
"I  said  corns." 

"Stand  out  of  my  way,  boy,  or  I'll  cane  you," 
exclaimed  the  incensed  fop. 

"Your  cane  wouldn't  hurt,"  said  Sam,  re- 
garding the  slight  stick  with  disdain.  "Never 
mind;  you  needn't  go  up.  I  don't  believe 
you've  got  a  dollar." 

This  was  rather  impudent  in  Sam,  I  ac- 
knowledge, and  the  dandy  would  have  been 
glad  to  chastise  him. 

"Miss  Winslow,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you  won't 
mind  the  rudeness  of  this — ah,  ragamuffin." 

"Oh,  I  don't,"  said  the  young  lady,  merrily ; 
"he  amuses  me." 

"So  he  does  me;  ha!  ha!  very  good  joke," 
said  the  dandy,  laughing,  too,  but  not  very 
merrily.   "I  hope  you  are  quite  well  to-day." 

"Thank  you,  quite  so.  But  don't  let  me  de- 
tain you,  if  you  have  an  engagement  upstairs." 

"I  assure  you,"  protested  the  young  man. 


1 88  The   Young   Outlaw. 

hurriedly,  "that  I  have  no  intention  of  going 
up  at  all." 

"Then  I  must  say  good-morning,  at  any 
rate,  as  I  am  out  shopping,"  and  the  young 
lady  passed  on. 

"I've  a  great  mind  to  flog  you,"  said  the 
dandy,  frowning  at  Sam.  "I  would  if  you 
wasn't  so  dirty.  I  wouldn't  like  to  soil  my 
hands  by  taking  hold  of  you." 

"That's  lucky  for  you,"  said  Sam,  coolly. 

The  answer  was  a  withering  frown,  but  Sam 
was  tough,  and  not  easily  withered. 

"Ain't  he  stuck  up,  though?"  thought  he,  as 
the  young  man  left  him.  "He  don't  seem  to 
like  me  much." 

"Have  you  got  any  corns,  sir?"  he  asked, 
thrusting  a  paper  into  the  hands  of  a  portly 
gentleman  with  a  merry  face. 

The  gentleman  laughed. 

"Eeally,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "that  is  a  very 
singular  question." 

"Is  it?"  said  Sam.   "I  don't  know  why." 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  Dr.  Graham  upstairs  will  cure  you 
before  you  know  it.    It's  only  a  dollar." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  189 

"You  are  sure  you  are  not  Dr.  Graham, 
yourself?"  said  the  stout  man,  regarding  Sam 
with  an  amused  expression. 

"If  I  was,  I'd  wear  better  clothes,"  said 
Sam.  "He  makes  lots  of  money,  the  doctor 
does." 

"You'd  better  learn  the  business,  my  young 
friend." 

"I  guess  I  will,  if  he'll  learn  me,"  said  Sam. 
"It'll  pay  better  than  standin'  here,  givin' 
away  papers." 

"Don't  that  pay?" 

"Not  very  well,"  said  Sam.  "I  only  get  ten 
cents  a  hundred." 

"Can  you  pay  your  board  out  of  that?" 

"No ;  but  I  make  commissions,  besides,"  said 
Sam. 

*'How  is  that?"  asked  the  stout  gentleman, 
in  some  curiosity. 

"If  you'd  gone  upstairs,  and  had  two  corns 
cured,  the  doctor — would  have  given  me  a 
quarter." 

"Would  he,  really?" 

"Yes,  he  would.     Hadn't  you  better  go?" 

"I  have  no  occasion  for  Dr.  Graham's  sery- 


190  The   Young   Outlaw. 

ices,  at  present,"  said  the  gentleman,  laugh- 
ing ;  "but  still  I  don't  want  you  to  lose  by  me. 
Here's  a  quarter,"  producing  the  same  from 
his  vest  pocket,  and  giving  it  to  Sam.  "Isn't 
that  just  as  well  as  if  I  had  gone  up?" 

"Thank  you,  sir.  You're  a  gentleman,"  said 
Sam.    "Do  you  come  by  here  often?" 

His  new  acquaintance  laughed.  "Every 
day,"  he  answered,  "but  I  don't  give  away 
quarters  every  day.  If  you  expect  that,  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  have  to  walk  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street.  Good-morning,  and  success  to 
you." 

"Good-morning,"  said  Sam. 

"Well,  here's  luck,"  thought  Sam.  "I  like 
this  business  pretty  well.  I've  made  sixty 
cents  already,  and  the  doctor's  goin'  to  pay  me 
ten  cents  more.  That'll  buy  me  a  good,  square 
dinner,  and  take  me  to  the  theatre  besides." 

So  Sam  continued  distributing  his  circulars. 
Some  into  whose  hands  they  were  thrust  did 
not  appear  to  be  suitably  grateful;  and, 
though  on  the  lookout  for  a  customer,  he  did 
not  succeed  in  finding  any,  till  by  good  luck 
the  last  circular  was  placed  in  the  hands  of 


The   Young   Outlaw.  191 

a  man  who  was  in  search  of  just  the  relief 
which  it  promised. 

"Where  is  Dr.  Graham's  office?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"Right  upstairs,  No.  10,"  said  Sam,  eagerly. 
"You  just  follow  me,  I'll  show  you." 

"I  think  I  can  find  it  without  you,"  said  the 
other. 

"Oh,  I  can  go  up  just  as  well  as  not,"  said 
Sam,  who  had  a  special  object,  as  we  know,  in 
serving  as  guide. 

"Very  well.  Go  ahcsid,  and  I  will  follow 
you/; 

Upstairs  went  Sam,  the  new  patient  follow- 
ing him. 

"I've  brought  another,"  said  Sam,  as  he 
burst  into  the  office. 

The  doctor,  though  glad  of  another  patient, 
was  rather  vexed  at  the  style  of  Sam's  an- 
nouncement. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "Sit  down  there,  till 
I  have  leisure  to  attend  to  you." 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  Sam,  sitting  down  on 
the  sofa  in  the  outer  office,  and  taking  up  the 
I  morning  Herald. 


192  The    Young   Outlaw. 

In  twenty  minutes  the  patient  departed,  re- 
lieved. 

"Now,"  said  Dr.  Graham,  addressing  Sam, 
"I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  When  you 
bring  in  a  patient  again,  don't  break  out  as 
you  did  just  now:  'IVe  brought  another.'  I 
was  very  much  mortified." 

"What  shall  I  say,  then?"  asked  Sam. 

"You  needn't  say  anything,  except,  'This  is 
Dr.  Graham,  sir.' " 

"Very  well,"  said  Sam,  "I'll  remember.  How 
much  did  you  make  out  of  him?" 

"Don't  speak  in  that  way.  My  charges  were 
three  dollars." 

"How  much  are  you  going  to  give  me?" 

"There's  thirty  cents." 

"I  think  I'll  go  and  get  some  dinner,  now," 
said  Sam.   "Will  you  want  me  to-morrow?" 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  the  doctor,  "that 
I  would  engage  you  as  my  office  boy." 

"What  would  I  have  to  do?" 

"Stay  in  the  office  when  I  am  away,  and  dis- 
tribute circulars  when  I  want  you  to." 

"How  much  will  you  pay  me?" 

"Three  dollars  a  week." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  193 

"And  commission,  too?" 

"No ;  we'll  say  four  dollars  without  commis- 
sion." 

"All  right,  sir.  I'll  be  on  hand  to-morrow 
mornin'." 

"I've  got  a  place,  at  last,"  thought  Sam,  in 
exultation.   "Now,  I'll  go  to  dinner." 


194  The    Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE     YOUNG     DOCTOR. 

The  fact  that  he  had  obtained  a  place  gave 
Sam  a  new  sense  of  importance.  Having 
drifted  about  the  city  streets  for  six  months, 
never  knowing  in  the  morning  where  his  meals 
were  to  come  from  during  the  day,  or  whether 
he  was  to  have  any,  it  was  pleasant  to  think 
that  he  was  to  have  regular  wages.  He  pre- 
sented himself  in  good  season  the  next  morn* 
ing. 

He  was  waiting  outside  when  the  doctor 
arrived. 

"So  you  are  on  hand,"  said  Dr.  Graham. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"By  the  way,  what  is  your  name?" 

"Sam  Barker." 

"Very  well,  Sam,  come  upstairs  with  me." 

Sam  followed  the  doctor  to  his  office. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  1195 

The  doctor  surveyed  his  young  assistant 
with  critical  eyes. 

"Where  do  you  buy  your  clothes?"  he 
asked. 

"I  haven't  bought  any,"  said  Sam.  "I 
brought  these  from  the  country." 

"They  seem  to  be  considerably  the  worse  for 
wear.  In  fact,  your  appearance  doesn't  do 
credit  to  my  establishment." 

"I  do  look  rather  ragged,"  said  Sam;  "but 
I  haven't  got  enough  money  to  buy  any  new 
clothes." 

"I  have  a  son  two  years  older  than  you.  He 
may  have  some  old  clothes  that  would  suit 
you.  I'll  have  a  bundle  made  up  and  brought 
down  to  the  office  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

The  doctor  kept  his  promise,  and  the  next 
day  our  hero  was  enabled  to  throw  aside  his 
rags,  and  attire  himself  in  a  neat  gray  suit, 
which  considerably  improved  his  outward 
appearance. 

"Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  would  suggest 
that  a  little  more  attention  to  washing  would 
be  of  advantage  to  you." 


196  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"All  right,  sir;  I'll  remember." 

Sam  scrubbed  himself  to  a  considerable  de- 
gree of  cleanness,  and  combed  his  hair.  The 
ultimate  result  was  a  very  creditable  looking 
office  boy. 

"Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  expect  you  to  be 
faithful  to  my  interests." 

Sam  readily  promised  this.  Already  he 
formed  glowing  anticipations  of  learning  the 
business,  and  succeeding  the  doctor;  or,  at 
any  rate,  being  admitted  to  partnership  at 
some  future  day. 

Several  weeks  passed  by.  Considering  his 
previous  course  of  life,  Sam  acquitted  himself 
very  well.  He  opened  the  office  in  the  morning, 
swept  it  out,  and  got  it  in  order  before  the 
doctor  arrived.  During  the  day  he  ran  on 
errands,  distributed  circulars,  in  fact  made 
himself  generally  useful.  The  doctor  was 
rather  irregular  in  coming  in  the  morning,  so 
that  Sam  was  sometimes  obliged  to  wait  for 
him  two  or  three  hours.  One  morning,  when 
sitting  at  his  ease  reading  the  morning  paper, 
he  was  aroused  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 

He  arose  and  opened  it. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  197 

"Is  the  doctor  in?"  asked  a  young  man  of 
Irish  extraction. 

"Hasn't  come  yet,"  said  Sam.  "Would  you 
like  to  see  him?" 

"I  would  thin.  He's  the  man  that  cures 
corns,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam.  "He's  the  best  corn  doctor 
in  the  city." 

"Thin  I've  come  to  the  right  place,  shure." 

"Have  you  got  one?" 

"I've  got  a  murtherin'  big  one.  It  almost 
kills  me." 

"Step  in  and  wait  for  the  doctor.  He'll  be 
in  soon." 

"I'm  in  a  great  hurry,"  said  the  young  man. 
"It's  porter  I  am  in  a  store  downtown,  and  I 
can't  stay  long.  How  much  does  the  doctor 
charge?" 

"A  dollar  for  each  corn." 

"Oh,  murder!  does  he  now?" 

"Isn't  it  worth  that?" 

"It's  a  mighty  big  price  to  pay." 

"You  see,"  said  Sam,  "he's  a  famous  doc- 
tor; that's  why  he  charges  so  much." 

"I  don't  care  for  that  at  all.    I'm  a  poor 


198  The    Young   Outlaw. 

man,  and  it's  hard  on  me  payin'  that  much." 

Here  an  idea  struck  Sam.  He  had  often 
witnessed  the  doctor's  operations,  and  to  his 
inexperienced  mind  they  seemed  easy  enough 
to  perform.  Why  couldn't  he  operate  a  little 
on  his  own  account  before  the  doctor  came? 
By  so  doing  he  would  make  a  little  money, 
and  if  successful  he  would  have  a  future 
source  of  revenue,  as  patients  often  came  when 
he  was  alone. 

"I'm  the  doctor's  assistant,"  he  commenced. 

"Are  you  now?  So  you're  the  young  doctor?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  it's  a  mighty  young  doctor  ye  are." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Sam.  "I've  learnt  the 
trade  of  Dr.  Graham." 

"Do  you  work  at  it  much?"  asked  the 
patient 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  "when  the  doctor's  away. 
"I  ain't  as  good  as  he  is,"  he  admitted  can- 
didly, "and  that  is  why  I  work  cheaper." 

"You  work  cheaper,  do  yer?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam.  "I  only  charge  half  price. " 

"That's  fifty  cents." 

"Yes." 


The    Young   Outlaw.  199 

"And  do  you  think  you  could  cure  me?" 

"Of  course  I  could,"  said  Sam,  confidently. 

"Then  go  ahead,"  said  the  Irishman,  in  a 
fit  of  reckless  confidence  which  he  was  des- 
tined to  repent. 

"Sit  down  there,"  said  Sam,  pointing  out 
the  patient's  chair. 

The  patient  obeyed. 

"Now,  take  off  your  boots.  You  don't  think 
I  am  going  to  cut  through  the  boot,  do  you?" 

He  was  obeyed. 

Sam  began  to  fumble  among  the  sharp  in- 
struments. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do?"  asked  the  pa- 
tient, rather  alarmed. 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid,"  said  Sam.  "You  won't 
feel  it." 

"Won't  feel  the  knife?" 

"No,  I'm  going  to  put  on  some  liquid  that'll 
take  away  the  feeling." 

"Shure  you  ought  to  know,"  said  the  pa- 
tient, his  confidence  returning. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Sam.    "Now  sit  still." 

Thus  far  Sam  was  perfectly  self-possessed. 
He  went  about  his  preparations  with  an  air 


200  The    Young   Outlaw. 

that  imposed  upon  the  patient.  But  the  diffi- 
culty was  to  come. 

Things  which  look  easy  often  are  found  diffi- 
cult when  attempted.  When  Sam  began  to 
wield  the  doctor's  instruments  he  did  so  awk- 
wardly. He  lacked  that  delicacy  of  touch 
which  can  only  be  acquired  by  practice,  and 
the  result  was  tragical.  The  knife  slipped,  in- 
flicting a  deep  gash,  and  causing  a  quick  flow 
of  blood. 

"Oh,  murder,  I'm  kilt !"  exclaimed  the  terri- 
fied patient,  bounding  to  his  feet,  and  rushing 
frantically  around  the  room.  "I'm  bladin'  to 
death." 

Sam  was  almost  equally  frightened.  He 
stood,  with  the  knife  in  his  hand,  panic- 
stricken. 

"I'll  have  you  up  for  murder,  I  will!" 
shouted  Mr.  Dennis  O'Brien,  clutching  the 
wounded  member.  "Oh,  why  did  I  ever  come 
to  a  boy  doctor?  Oh,  whirra,  whirra!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,"  said  Sam,  fright- 
ened. 

"You'll  be  hanged  for  killin'  me,  bad  'cess 
to  you.   Go  for  a  doctor,  quick." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  201) 

Almost  out  of  his  wits,  Sam  was  about  to 
obey,  when  as  he  opened  the  door  he  con- 
fronted his  employer.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances he  would  have  been  sorry  to  have  him 
come  in  so  soon.   Now  he  was  glad. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  asked  Dr. 
Graham,  surveying  with  astonishment  the 
Irishman  prancing  around  the  office,  and 
Sam's  scared  face. 

"He's  kilt  me,  doctor,"  said  Dennis,  groan- 
ing. 

"He?  Who?" 

"The  young  doctor,  sure." 

"Who's  he?" 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Mr.  O'Brien,  pointing 
to  Sam.  "He's  cut  my  toe  off,  and  I'm  bladin' 
to  death." 

"What  does  this  mean,  Sam?"  said  the  doc- 
tor, sternly. 

"He  was  in  a  hurry,"  stammered.  Sam,  "and 
I  didn't  want  him  to  go  away,  so  I  thought  I'd 
try  to  cure  him,  but  the  knife  slipped, 
and " 

"I'll  attend  to  your  case  afterward.  Sit 
down,  sir." 


202  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Will  I  die?"  asked  Dennis,  lugubriously. 

"No  danger  now.  You  might,  if  I  hadn't 
come  just  as  I  did." 

Matters  were  soon  remedied,  and  Dennis 
went  away  relieved,  well  satisfied  because  the 
doctor  declined,  under  the  circumstances,  to 
receive  any  fee. 

"Now,  Sam,"  said  the  doctor,  after  he  had 
gone,  "what  do  you  mean  by  such  work  as 
this?" 

"I  thought  I  could  do  it,"  said  Sam,  abashed. 

"I  ought  to  turn  you  away  for  this." 

"It  was  only  a  mistake,"  said  Sam. 

"It  came  near  being  a  very  serious  mistake. 
What  would  you  have  done  if  I  had  not  come 
just  as  I  did?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sam. 

"Never  touch  my  instruments  again.  If  you 
do  I  shall  discharge  you  at  once;  that  is,  after 
giving  you  a  sound  flogging." 

Sam  felt  that  he  had  got  off  easily,  and  de- 
termined not  to  set  up  again  as  doctor  on  his 
own  account. 


The   Young  Outlaw,  203 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SAM  FALLS  INTO  BAD  COMPANY. 

Foe  a  time  matters  went  on  smoothly.  Sam 
was  abashed  by  the  result  of  his  experiment, 
and  discouraged  from  making  another.  He 
felt  that  he  had  a  good  place.  Living  chiefly 
at  the  lodging  house,  his  expenses  were  small, 
and  four  dollars  a  week  were  ample  to  meet 
them.  There  was  one  thing  he  missed,  how- 
ever— the  freedom  to  roam  about  the  streets 
at  will.  He  felt  this  the  more  when  the  pleas- 
ant spring  weather  came  on.  There  were  times 
when  he  got  sick  of  the  confinement,  and 
longed  to  leave  the  office. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  in  May  when  Dr, 
Graham  called  from  the  inner  office: 

"Sam!" 

"What,  sir?" 

"Do  you  know  the  way  to  Brooklyn?" 

"Yes,  sir." 


204  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"I  want  yon  to  go  over  there  for  me." 

"All  right,  sir." 

It  may  be  explained  that  Dr.  Graham,  on 
the  first  of  May,  had  moved  over  to  Brooklyn, 
and  was  occupying  a  house  about  a  mile  from 
Fulton  Ferry. 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  my  house,"  said  the 

doctor,  "No.  —  H Street,  and  carry  this 

letter  to  my  wife." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  forgot  entirely  to  leave  her  some  money 
to  meet  a  bill;  but  if  you  go  at  once  it  will 
reach  her  in  time.  Stay,  I  will  give  you  the 
address  on  a  card." 

"All  right,  sir." 

"Here  is  a  quarter.  It  will  pay  your  car 
fare,  and  over  the  ferry  both  ways.  Now,  mind 
you  come  back  as  quick  as  you  can." 

This  Sam  readily  promised.  He  was  glad  to 
get  away  for  the  morning,  as  he  calculated 
that  the  expedition  would  take  him  nearly,  or 
quite,  three  hours.  He  took  a  car  and  got  out 
at  the  Astor  House.  On  his  way  down  to  the 
ferry  he  met  an  old  street  acquaintance — Jim 
Nolan, 


The   Young  Outlaw.  205 

"How  are  you,  Sam?"  said  Jim. 

"Tiptop !"  answered  Sam. 

"Where  do  you  keep  yourself?  Are  you 
blackin'  boots  now?" 

"No,"  answered  Sam,  with  rather  an  im- 
portant air.   "I'm  in  an  office." 

"How  much  do  you  get?" 

"Four  dollars  a  week." 

"That's  good.   How'd  you  get  it?* 

"Oh,  the  doctor  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and 
asked  me  to  come." 

"You're  in  luck.   So  you're  with  a  doctor?" 

"Yes — Dr.  Graham.    He's  a  corn  doctor." 

"Where  does  he  hang  out?" 

"No.  Broadway." 

"Do  you  have  much  to  do?" 

"Not  very  much." 

"How  do  you  come  down  here,  then?" 

"I'm  takin'  a  letter  to  Brooklyn  for  the 
doctor." 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam;  adding  unluckily,  "there's 
money  in  it." 

"Is  there?"  said  Jim,  prieking  up  his  ears. 
"How  do  you  know?  Let's  see  the  letter." 


2o6  The   Young   Outlaw. 

Sam  took  the  letter  from  his  inside  coat 
pocket,  and  passed  it  to  Jim. 

The  latter  held  it  up  to  the  light,  and  tried 
to  look  inside.  Fortune  favored  his  efforts. 
The  envelope  was  imperfectly  fastened,  and 
came  open. 

"There,  Jim,"  said  Sam,  "now  see  what 
you've  done." 

"Let's  look  inside,  and  see  how  much  money 
there  is,"  suggested  Jim. 

Sam  hesitated. 

"It  won't  do  any  harm  to  look  at  it,"  said 
the  tempter. 

"That's  so,"  said  Sam. 

He  accordingly  drew  out  the  inclosure,  and 
disclosed  two  ten-dollar  bills. 

Jim's  eyes  sparkled  with  greed. 

"Twenty  dollars!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a 
lot  of  good  that  would  do  us !" 

Sam's  principles  were  not  firm,  but  he  had  a 
good  place,  and  the  temptation  was  not  as 
strong  as  in  Jim's  case;  so  he  answered, 
"Maybe  it  would,  but  it  ain't  ours." 

Jim  fastened  his  little  black  eyes  on  Sam 
cunningly. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  207 

"It  might  be,"  he  answered. 

"How  conld  it  be?" 

"You  could  keep  it." 

"The  doctor'd  find  it  out." 

"Tell  him  somebody  hooked  it  out  of  your 
pocket.  He  wouldn't  know." 

Sam  shook  his  head. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  lose  a  good  place  just  for 
that,"  he  said. 

"Think  what  a  lot  of  things  you  could  do 
for  ten  dollars,"  urged  Jim. 

"Twenty,  you  mean." 

"That's  ten  apiece,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  you  want  some,  do  you?"  inquired 
Sam. 

"Yes;  I'll  take  it  from  you,  and  then  give 
you  back  half.  So  it'll  be  me  that  stole  it. 
They  can't  do  nothin'  to  you.  Come,  I'll  go 
over  to  Brooklyn  with  you,  and  then  you  can 
make  up  your  mind.'" 

On  board  the  boat  Jim  renewed  his  per- 
suasions, and  finally  Sam  yielded. 

"I'm  afraid  the  doctor'll  think  I  took  it,"  he 
said. 

"No  matter!   He  can't  prove  nothing 


208  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"We'll  find  it  hard  to  change  the  bills. " 

"No,  we  won't.  I'll  tell  you  where  to  go.  Can 
you  play  billiards?" 

"No;  but  I'd  like  to  learn." 

"I  know,  and  I'll  learn  you.  There's  a  saloon 
over  in  Brooklyn  where  we  can  go  and  have  a 
game.  We'll  pay  out  of  one  of  the  bills." 

Now  Sam  had  long  wanted  to  learn  the  game 
of  billiards,  and  this  seemed  a  good  oppor- 
tunity. Perhaps  this  consideration  as  much  as 
any  determined  him  to  close  with  his  friend's 
proposal.  When,  therefore,  they  had  reached 
the  Brooklyn  side,  instead  of  taking  the  trolley 
cars  to  Dr.  Graham's  house,  Sam  followed  his 
companion  to  a  low  billiard  saloon  not  far 
away. 

There  were  four  tables,  one  of  which  only 
was  occupied,  for  it  was  too  early.  On  one 
side  of  the  room  was  a  bar,  behind  which  stood 
a  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 

"Well,  boys,  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"We  want  a  table,"  said  Jim.  "We're  goin* 
to  play  a  game," 

The  man  in  the  shirtsleeves  produced,  from 


The   Young   Outlaw.  209 

underneath  the  counter,  a  green  pasteboard 
box,  containing  four  ivory  billiard  balls. 

"What  table  will  you  have?"  he  asked. 

"This  one  here,"  said  Jim,  leading  the  way 
to  one  farthest  from  the  door. 

"Now  take  a  cue,  Sam,"  he  said.  "We'll  have 
a  jolly  game." 

"You  must  tell  me  how  to  play." 

"Oh,  I'll  learn  you." 

'Jim  was  not  a  very  skillful  player,  but  he 
knew  something  of  the  game,  and  under  his 
instruction  Sam  made  some  progress,  being 
able  to  make  a  shot  now  and  then.  He  was 
very  much  pleased  with  the  game,  and  deter- 
mined to  devote  his  spare  earnings  to  this  form 
of  recreation  hereafter.  When  the  game  was 
ended,  a  full  hour  had  passed. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  so  late,"  said  Sam, 
starting.    "I  shall  have  to  go." 

"Go  and  pay  for  the  first  game." 

"You  ought  to  pay  half." 

"No :  I  beat.  The  one  that  loses  the  game  has 
to  pay." 

"Of  course  you  beat.  It  was  my  first  game." 

"Never  mind.  You'll  soon  play  as  well  as  I, 
and  then  I  shall  have  to  pay  half  the  time." 


2io  The    Young   Outlaw, 

"Do  you  think  I'll  improve?" 

"Of  course  you  will.  We'll  play  again  tO» 
night." 

"Here?" 

"No,  in  New  York.  I'll  show  you  a  good 
saloon  in  Chatham  Street." 

Sam  stepped  up  to  the  counter. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"Sixty  cents." 

"It's  only  twenty-five  cents  a  game,"  said 
Jim  Nolan. 

"Your  game  was  longer  than  two  ordinary 
ones.   I'll  call  it  fifty  cents." 

Sam  produced  the  ten-dollar  bill,  and  re- 
ceived in  return  nine  dollars  and  a  half.  The 
clerk  was  rather  surprised  at  a  boy  presenting 
so  large  a  bill.  He  suspected  that  it  was  not 
come  by  honestly ;  but,  as  he  argued,  that  was 
none  of  his  business.  What  he  cared  for  most 
was  to  get  paid  for  the  billiards.  So  Sam,  who 
had  felt  a  little  uneasy  about  offering  the 
money,  was  more  at  his  ease. 

"We  had  a  good  game,  didn't  we?"  said  Jim. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  211 

"And  you  did  bully  for  the  first  time.  I 
couldn't  play  so  well  my  first  game." 

Sam  felt  flattered  by  this  compliment  from 
his  companion. 

"Now  I  must  go  back,"  he  said. 

"I'll  go  along  back  with  you.  But  we'll  take 
a  drink  first.  I  want  to  change  my  bill  too." 

"Why  didn't  you  do  it  in  the  billiard  saloon  ? 
They  had  a  bar  there." 

"They  might  suspect  something  if  both  of 
us  offered  tens.  Here's  a  place  close  by.  Come 
in  here." 

Jim  led  the  way  into  a  drinking-saloon,  and 
Sam  followed. 

"It's  my  treat,"  said  Jim.  "What'll  you 
have?" 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  take?" 

"A  whiskey  punch." 

"I'll  take  one  too." 

"Two  whiskey  punches,  and  mind  you  make 
'em  stiff,"  said  Jim. 

He  tossed  down  his  glass,  but  Sam  drank 
more  slowly. 

Jim  paid  for  the  drinks,  and  they  went  out 
into  the  street. 


212  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

SAM'S  EXCUSES. 

Sam  was  not  used  to  liquor,  and  was  more 
easily  affected  than  most.  When  he  got  out 
into  the  street  his  head  spun  round,  and  he 
staggered.   His  companion  observed  it. 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  ter  say  yer  tight, 
Sam?"  he  said,  pausing  and  looking  at  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  said  Sam,  "but  I 
feel  queer." 

"Kinder  light  in  the  head,  and  shaky  in  the 
legs?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  way  I  feel." 

"Then  you're  drunk." 

"Drunk!"  ejaculated  Sam,  rather  fright- 
ened, for  he  was  still  unsophisticated  com- 
pared with  his  companion. 

"Just  so.  I  say,  you  must  be  a  chicken  to  gel 


The   Young   Outlaw.  213 

tight  on  one  whiskey  punch,"  added  Jim, 
rather  contemptuously. 

"It  was  strong,"  said  Sam,  by  way  of  apolo- 
gy, leaning  against  a  lamp  post  ior  support. 

"It  was  stiffish,"  said  Jim.  "I  always  take 
'em  so." 

"And  don't  you  feel  it  at  all?"  queried  Sam. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Jim,  decidedly.  "I  ain't  a 
baby." 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  Sam,  with  a  spark  of 
his  accustomed  spirit.  "Only  I  ain't  used  to 
it." 

"Why,  I  could  take  three  glasses,  one  after 
the  other,  without  gettin'  tight,"  said  Jim, 
proudly.  "I  tell  you,  I've  got  a  strong 
stomach." 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  taken  the  drink,"  said  Sam. 
"When  will  I  feel  better?" 

"In  an  hour  or  two." 

"I  can't  go  back  to  the  doctor  this  way.  He'll 
know  I've  been  drinkin'.  I  wish  I  could  lie 
down  somewhere." 

"I'll  tell  you  what.  Come  round  to  the  ferry- 
room.  You  can  sit  down  there  till  you  feel 
better." 


214  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Give  me  your  arm,  Jim.  I'm  light-beaded."* 

With  Jim's  assistance  Sam  made  his  way  to 
Fulton  Ferry,  but  instead  of  going  over  in  the 
next  boat  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat  in  the  wait- 
ing-room, and  rested.  Jim  walked  about  on  the 
pier,  his  hands  in  his  pocket,  with  an  inde- 
pendent air.  He  felt  happy  and  prosperous. 
Never  before  in  his  life,  probably,  had  he  had 
so  much  money  in  his  possession.  Some  men 
with  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  would  have 
felt  poorer  than  Jim  with  nine  dollars  and  a 
half. 

By  and  by  Sam  felt  enough  better  to  start 
on  his  homeward  journey.  Jim  agreed  to  ac- 
company him  as  far  as  the  New  York  side. 

"I  don't  know  what  the  doctor  will  say  when 
he  finds  out  the  money  is  gone,"  said  Sam, 
soberly. 

"You  must  tell  him  it  was  stolen  from  you 
by  a  pickpocket." 

"Suppose  he  don't  believe  it?" 

"He  can't  prove  nothin'." 

"He  might  search  me." 

"So  he  might,"  said  Jim.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
vou'd  better  do/' 


The    Young    Outlaw.  215 

"What?" 

"Just  give  me  the  money  to  keep  for  you. 
Then  if  he  searches  you,  he  won't  find  it." 

If  Jim  expected  this  suggestion  to  be 
adopted,  he  undervalued  Sam's  shrewdness. 
That  young  man  had  not  knocked  about  the 
streets  eight  months  for  nothing. 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Sam,  significantly.  "May- 
be I  wouldn't  find  it  any  easier  if  you  took  it." 

"You  don't  call  me  a  thief,  do  you?"  de- 
manded Jim,  offended. 

"It  looks  as  if  we  was  both  thieves,"  said 
Sam,  candidly. 

"You  needn't  talk  so  loud,"  said  Jim,  hur- 
riedly. "There's  no  use  in  tellin'  everybody 
that  I  see.  I  don't  want  the  money,  only  if  the 
old  man  finds  it,  don't  blame  me." 

"You  needn't  be  mad,  Jim,"  said  Sam.  "I'll 
need  the  money  myself.  I  guess  I'll  have  to 
hide  it." 

"Do  you  wear  stockin's?"  asked  Jim. 

"Yes;  don't  you?" 

"Not  in  warm  weather.  They  ain't  no  good. 
They  only  get  dirty.  But  if  you  wear  'em, 
that's  the  place  to  hide  the  money." 


216  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  said  Sam.  "J 
wouldn't  have  thought  of  it.  Where  can  I  d« 
it?" 

"Wait  till  we're  on  the  New  York  side.  You 
can  sit  down  on  one  of  the  piers  and  do  it.  No- 
body'll  see  you." 

Sam  thought  this  good  advice,  and  decided 
to  follow  it. 

"There  is  some  use  in  stockin's,"  said  Jim, 
reflectively.  "If  I  was  in  your  place,  I  wouldn't 
know  where  to  stow  away  the  money.  Where 
are  you  goin'  now?" 

"I'll  have  to  go  back,"  said  Sam.  "I've  been 
a  long  time  already." 

"I'm  going  to  get  some  dinner,"  said  Jim. 

"I  haven't  got  time,"  said  Sam.  "Besides,  I 
don't  feel  so  hungry  as  usual.  I  guess  it's  the 
drink  I  took." 

"It  don't  take  away  my  appetite,"  said  his 
companion,  with  an  air  of  superiority. 

Sam  took  the  cars  home.  Knowing  what  he 
did,  it  was  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that 
he  ascended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  pres- 
ence of  Dr.  Graham. 

The  doctor  looked  angry. 


The   Young   Outlaw.  217 

"What  made  you  so  long?"  he  demanded 
abruptly.  "Did  you  find  the  house?" 

"No,"  answered  Sam,  wishing  that  his  em- 
barrassing explanations  were  fully  over.  "No, 
I  didn't." 

"You  didn't  find  the  house!"  exclaimed  the 
doctor,  in  angry  surprise.   "Why  didn't  you?" 

"I  thought  it  wasn't  any  use,"  stammered 
Sam. 

"Wasn't  any  use !"  repeated  the  chiropodist. 
"Explain  yourself,  sir,  at  once." 

"As  long  as  I  hadn't  got  the  letter,"  pro- 
ceeded Sam. 

Now  the  secret  was  out. 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  letter?"  de- 
manded Dr.  Graham,  suspiciously. 

"I  lost  it." 

"Lost  it!  How  could  you  lose  it?  Didn't 
you  know  there  was  money  in  it?"  said  his  em- 
ployer, looking  angry  and  disturbed. 

"Yes,  sir;  you  said  so." 

"Then  why  were  you  not  careful  of  it,  you 
young  rascal?" 

"I  was,  sir;  that  is,  I  tried  to  be.  But  it  was 
stolen." 


218  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"Who  would  steal  the  letter  unless  he  knew 
that  it  contained  money?" 

"That's  it,  sir.  I  ought  not  to  have  told  any- 
body." 

"Sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it,  or  it  will 
be  the  worse  for  you,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Now  for  it!"  thought  Sam. 

"You  see,  sir,"  he  commenced,  "I  was  in  the 
trolley  cars  in  Brooklyn,  when  I  saw  a  boy  I 
knew.  We  got  to  talking,  and,  before  I  knew 
it,  I  told  him  that  I  was  carryin'  a  letter  with 
money  in  it.  I  took  it  out  of  my  coat  pocket, 
and  showed  it  to  him." 

"You  had  no  business  to  do  it,"  said  Dr. 
Graham.  "No  one  but  a  fool  would  show  a 
saoney-letter.   So  the  boy  stole  it,  did  he?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Sam,  hastily.  "It  wasn't  he." 

"Who  was  it,  then?  Don't  be  all  day  telling 
your  story,"  said  the  doctor,  irritably. 

"There  was  a  young  man  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  me,"  said  Sam.  "He  was  well- 
dressed,  and  I  didn't  think  he'd  do  such  a 
thing;  but  he  must  have  stole  the  letter." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"He  got  out  only  two  or  three  minutes  after- 


The   Young   Outlaw.  219 

ward,  and  it  wasn't  long  after  that  that  1 
missed  the  letter." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  stopped  the  car,  and  went  back.  Jim  went 
back  along  with  me.  We  looked  all  round, 
tryin'  to  find  the  man,  but  we  couldn't." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,"  growled  the  doc- 
tor. "Did  you  think  he  would  stay  till  you 
came  up?" 

"No,  sir.  That  is,  I  didn't  know  what  to 
think.  I  felt  so  bad  about  losing  the  money," 
said  Sam,  artfully. 

Now  this  story  was  on  the  whole  very  well 
got  up.  It  did  not  do  credit  to  Sam's  principles 
but  it  did  do  credit  to  his  powers  of  invention. 
It  might  be  true.  There  are  such  men  as  pick- 
pockets to  be  found  riding  in  our  city  cars,  as 
possibly  some  of  my  readers  may  have  occa- 
sion to  know.  As  yet  Dr.  Graham  did  not 
doubt  the  story  of  his  young  assistant.  Sam 
came  very  near  getting  off  scot-free. 

"But  for  your  carelessness  this  money  would 
not  have  been  lost,"  said  his  employer.  "You 
ought  to  make  up  the  loss  to  me." 

"I  haven't  got  any  money,"  said  Sam. 


220  The   Young   Outlaw. 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  Dr.  Graham. 
"Empty  your  pockets,"  he  said. 

"How  lucky  I  put  the  bills  in  my  stocking !" 
thought  Sam. 

He  turned  out  his  pockets,  disclosing  fifty 
cents.  It  was  Friday,  and  to-morrow  his 
weekly  wages  would  come  due. 

"That's  all  I've  got,"  he  said. 

"Twenty  dollars  is  five  weeks'  salary,"  said 
Dr.  Graham.  "You  ought  to  work  for  me  five 
weeks  without  pay." 

"I'd  starve  to  death,"  said  Sam,  in  alarm. 
"I  wouldn't  be  able  to  buy  anything  to  eat." 

"I  can  keep  back  part  of  your  salary,  then," 
said  his  employer.  "It  is  only  proper  that  you 
should  suffer  for  your  negligence." 

At  this  moment  a  friend  of  the  doctor's 
entered  the  office. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

Dr.  Graham  explained  briefly. 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  visitor,  "I  can  throw 
some  light  upon  your  loss." 

'You!   How?" 

"I  happened  to  be  coming  over  from  Brook- 


The   Young  Outlaw.  22  £ 

lyn  an  hour  since  on  the  same  boat  with  that 
young  man  there,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Sam  turned  pale.   There  was  something  m 
the  speaker's  tone  that  frightened  him. 


222  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

BROUGHT  TO  JUSTICE. 

Sam  would  have  been  glad  to  leave  the  office, 
but  he  knew  that  to  ask  would  be  to  subject 
him  to  increased  suspicion.  Besides,  the 
stranger  might  not  be  intending  to  accuse  him. 

Dr.  Graham's  attention  was  excited,  and  he 
asked :  "Do  you  know  anything  of  this  matter, 
Mr.  Clement?" 

"Yes,  doctor.  As  I  said,  I  was  on  board  the 
Brooklyn  ferry  with  this  young  man  and  a 
friend  of  his,  whom  I  believe  he  addressed  as 
'Jim.  I  heard  them  talk,  being  in  the  next  seat, 
about  money,  and  something  was  said  about 
concealment.  My  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  follow  them  after  they 
left  the  boat." 

"He  knows  all  about  it,"  thought  Sam.  "I 
wish  1  hadn't  come  back." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  223 

"Go  on,"  said  Dr.  Graham,  eyeing  Sam 
sternly  as  lie  spoke.  "You  followed  the  boys?" 

"Yes.  They  made  their  way  to  the  end  of  a 
pier,  where  this  young  man  of  yours  slipped 
Off  his  stockings,  and,  as  well  as  I  could  tell, 
for  I  was  watching  at  a  distance,  concealed 
some  bills  in  them,  and  afterward  drew  them 
on  again.  It  struck  me  at  once  that  if  the 
money  had  been  honestly  come  by,  they 
wouldn't  have  been  so  anxious  to  secrete  it." 

"Sam,"  said  the  doctor,  sternly,  "what  have 
you  to  say  to  this  charge?" 

"It  was  my  money,"  stammered  Sam. 

"What  did  you  put  it  in  your  stockings 
for?" 

"Jim  told  me  how  dangerous  it  was  to  carry 
it  round  in  my  pocket  loose.  So,  as  I  hadn't 
any  pocketbook,  I  put  it  in  my  stockings." 

"Very  probable,  indeed.  Suppose  you  take 
off  your  stockings." 

Sam  had  decided  objections  to  this;  but  he 
saw  that  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  urge  them, 
and  slowly  and  reluctantly  complied. 

"Now  put  in  your  hand,  and  take  out  the 
money." 


*24  The   Young   Outlaw. 

Sam  did  so. 

The  doctor  counted  the  bills. 

"Here  are  only  nine  dollars,"  he  said.  'Take 
out  the  rest." 

"There  isn't  any  more,"  said  Sam. 

"Don't  attempt  to  deceive  me,"  said  his  em- 
ployer, sternly.  "It  will  be  the  worse  for  you 
if  you  do." 

"There  isn't  any  more,"  persisted  Sam, 
earnestly.  "If  you  don't  believe  it,  you  may 
look  yourself." 

Dr.  Graham  did  so,  and  found  the  state* 
ment  correct. 

"There  were  twenty  dollars  ii.  the  letter," 
he  said,  sternly.  "What  has  become  of  the 
other  eleven?" 

There  was  no  use  in  persisting  in  denial 
further,  and  Sam  made  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

"Jim  got  half  the  money,"  he  confessed. 

"Who's  Jim?" 

"Jim  Nolan." 

"How  came  he  to  get  half  the  money?  Did 
you  owe  it  to  him?" 

For  the  first  time  it  struck  Sam  that  he  had 
been  a  fool  to  give  away  ten  dollars  without 


The   Young   Outlaw.  22^ 

adequate  return.  All  that  Jim  had  given  was 
bad  advice,  which  is  never  worth  taking. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  give  it  to  him," 
said  Sam.  "It  was  he  who  wanted  me  to  take 
the  money.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  but  for 
Jim." 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Mr.  Clement,  "that 
Jim  is  not  a  very  desirable  companion.  So 
you  gave  him  ten  dollars?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Did  you  spend  any  of  the  money?"  asked 
Dr.  Graham. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"In  what  way?" 

"I  went  in  with  Jim,  and  played  a  game  of 
billiards." 

"Paying  for  the  game  with  my  money?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  else?" 

"Jim  took  me  into  a  drinking-place,  and 
treated  me  to  a  whiskey  punch." 

"Also  with  my  money,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  sir;  he  wanted  to  get  the  ten-dollar 
bill  changed." 

"Was  this  in  Brooklyn  or  New  York?" 


226  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"In  Brooklyn." 

"Upon  my  word,  very  well  planned.  So 
you  expected  me  to  believe  your  story  about 
having  your  pocket  picked.     Did  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"A  pretty  story,  Mr.  Clement,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, turning  to  his  friend.  "What  would  you 
advise  me  to  do — have  the  boy  arrested?" 

"Oh,  don't,"  implored  Sam,  turning  pale; 
"I'll  never  do  it  again." 

"You  won't  have  the  chance,"  said  the  doc- 
tor,  dryly. 

"If  you  ask  my  advice,"  said  Mr.  Clement, 
"I  will  give  it.  I  suspect  this  Jim  is  the  worse 
boy  of  the  two.  Now  he's  got  ten  dollars  of 
your  money." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Do  you  mean  to  let  him  keep  it?" 

"He's  spent  part  of  it  by  this  time." 

"You  can  get  the  rest  back." 

"How?     I  don't  know  the  boy." 

"You  know  his  name.  The  superintendent 
of  the  Newsboys'  Lodging  House  could  prob- 
ably put  you  on  his  track.  Besides,  your  boy 
here  can  help  you." 


The   Young   Outlaw.  227 

"I  don't  know  but  you  are  right." 

"Sam,"  said  Mr.  Clement,  "are  you  willing 
to  help  Dr.  Graham  get  back  his  money?" 

"I  don't  like  to  get  Jim  into  a  scrape,"  said 
Sam. 

"It  seems  he's  got  you  into  a  scrape.  It 
is  your  only  chance  of  escaping  being  sent  to 
Blackwell's  Island." 

"Will  Jim  be  sent  there?" 

"That  depends  on  the  doctor.  If  this  Jim 
will  give  back  what  he  has  of  the  money  you 
gave  him,  and  agree  to  give  back  the  rest  as 
soon  as  he  earns  it,  I  think  the  doctor  will 
let  him  off." 

"Then  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  Sam. 

"As  for  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  shall  re- 
tain these  nine  dollars;  also  the  four  I  was 
to  have  paid  you  to-morrow.  If  I  get  back  the 
full  amount  from  your  confederate,  I  will  pay 
you  the  difference.  Now,  how  can  you  get 
at  this  Jim?" 

"He'll  be  somewhere  around  City  Hall 
Park,"  said  Sam. 

"You  may  go  in  search  of  him.  Tell  him  to 
come  to  this  office  with  you.     If  he  don't  come 


228  The   Young   Outlaw. 

he  will  be  arrested,  and  I  will  have  no  mercy 
upon  him.  If  you  undertake  to  play  me  false, 
the  same  fate  awaits  you." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Sam.  "I'll  come 
back,  honor  bright!" 

"Do  you  think  he  will?"  asked  Dr.  Graham, 
turning  to  Mr.  Clement. 

"Yes,  for  he  knows  it  wouldn't  be  safe  for 
him  to  stay  away." 

"Go  away,  then,  and  come  back  as  soon  as 
possible." 

Sam  made  all  haste  to  the  City  Hall  Park, 
where  he  expected  to  find  Jim.  He  was  not 
disappointed.  Jim  was  sitting  on  one  of  the 
steps  of  the  City  Hall  smoking  a  cigar.  He 
had  the  air  of  a  gentleman  of  leisure  and  in- 
dependent income,  with  no  cares  to  disturb 
or  harass  him. 

He  did  not  see  Sam  till  the  latter  called  him 
by  name. 

"Where'd  you  come  from,  Sam?"  he  asked, 
placidly. 

"From  the  office." 

"Did  the  boss  make  a  row  about  the  money?" 

"You  bet  he  did!" 


The   Young   Outlaw.  229 

"He  didn't  find  out,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  he  did." 

Jim  looked  up  now. 

"He  don't  know  anything  about  me,  does 
he?"  he  inquired. 

"I  had  to  tell  him." 

"That's  mean!"  exclaimed  Jim.  "You'd 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  tell  on  a  friend." 

"I  had  to.  There  was  a  chap — a  friend  of 
the  doctor's — that  was  on  the  boat,  and  heard 
us  talkin'  about  the  money.  He  followed  us, 
and  saw  me  stuff  the  money  in  my  stockin'." 

Jim  indulged  in  a  profane  ejaculation. 

"What's  he  goin'  to  do  about  it?"  he  asked. 

"He's  made  me  give  up  the  money,  and  he's 
sent  me  for  you." 

"I  won't  go,"  said  Jim,  hastily. 

"You'd  better.  If  you  don't,  you'll  be  took 
up." 

"What  am  I  to  go  to  the  office  for?"  asked 
Jim,  rather  startled. 

"To  give  up  the  money." 

"I've  spent  two  dollars." 

"If  you  give  up  what's  left,  and  agree  to  pay 
the  rest,  he'll  let  you  off." 


230  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Did  he  say  so?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me  so." 

If  there  had  been  any  hope  of  escaping  with 
the  money,  Jim  would  have  declined  calling 
on  Dr.  Graham ;  but  of  that  he  knew  there  was 
little  chance.  Indeed,  he  was  not  altogether 
unknown  to  the  police,  having,  on  two  or  three 
previous  occasions,  come  under  their  notice. 
So,  considerably  less  cheerful  than  before,  he 
accompanied  Sam  to  the  office. 

"Is  this  the  boy?"  asked  the  doctor,  survey- 
ing Sam's  companion  attentively. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  young  man,"  said 
the  doctor,  dryly.  "Suppose  we  settle  money 
matters  first  of  all.  How  much  have  you 
left?" 

Jim  drew  out  eight  dollars  in  bills. 

"So  far,  so  good.     You  owe  me  two  dollars." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  won't  ask  for  your  note  of  hand.  I'm 
afraid  I  couldn't  negotiate  it;  but  I  expect  you 
to  pay  me  back  the  balance  by  installments. 
If  not,  I  shall  know  where  to  lay  hold  of  you." 

Jim  had  nothing  to  say. 


The    Young   Outlaw.  23 1! 

"Now  you  can  go.     Sam,  you  can  stay." 

"I  suppose  he's  goin'  to  send  me  off," 
thought  Sam. 

"You  may  stay  till  to-morrow  night,  Sam," 
said  the  doctor,  "and  I  will  pay  you  what  bal- 
ance I  owe  you.  After  that,  I  think  we  had 
better  part  company.  You  are  a  little  too 
enterprising  for  me." 

Sam  made  no  objection.  In  fact,  he  had 
got  tired  of  the  confinement,  and  thought  it 
would  be  an  agreeable  variety  to  return  to 
his  old  life  again.  The  next  evening,  there- 
fore, he  retired  from  professional  life,  and, 
with  a  balance  of  fifty  cents  in  his  possession, 
set  up  once  more  as  a  street  vagabond.  When 
Jim  Nolan  paid  up  his  indebtedness,  he  would 
be  entitled  to  two  dollars  more.  Until  then 
he  was  held  for  the  debt  of  his  confederate. 


232  The   Young   Outlaw. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

pipkin's   dining-rooms. 

Sunday  is  a  dull  day  with  th<*  street  boys, 
whatever  their  business  may  be.  The  boot- 
blacks lose  least,  but  if  the  day  be  unpropi- 
tious  their  earnings  are  small.  On  such  a 
day  the  Newsboys'  Lodge  is  a  great  resource. 
It  supplies  all  that  a  boy  actually  needs — 
lodging  and  two  meals — for  the  small  sum  of 
eighteen  cents,  and  in  cases  of  need  will  trust 
boys  to  that  amount. 

Sam  naturally  had  recourse  to  this  hold  on 
finding  himself  out  of  a  situation.  He  had 
enough  to  pay  his  expenses,  and  did  not  feel 
compelled  to  go  to  work  till  Monday.  Mon- 
day morning,  however,  the  reduced  state  of 
his  finances  compelled  him  to  look  for  em- 
ployment.    If  he  had  had  a  little  capital  he 


The   Young   Outlaw.  233 

might  have  set  up  as  a  newsboy  or  bootblack, 
but  five  cents  can  hardly  be  considered  suf- 
ficient capital  for  either  of  these  lines  of  busi- 
ness. Credit  is  the  next  best  thing  to  capital, 
but  Sam  had  no  credit.  He  found  that  out, 
after  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  borrow  money 
of  a  bootblack,  who,  having  ten  dollars  in  a 
savings-bank,  was  regarded  in  his  own  class 
with  high  respect  as  a  wealthy  capitalist.  The 
name  of  this  exceptional  young  man  was  Wil- 
liam Clark,  better  known  among  the  boys  as 
Ready-money  Bill. 

When  twelve  o'clock  came,  and  Sam  had 
earned  nothing,  he  bethought  himself  of  Bill, 
the  capitalist. 

"Bill,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  borrer  a  dollar." 

"You  do !"  said  Bill,  sharply.     "What  for?" 

"To  set  me  up  in  business." 

"What  business?" 

"Evenin'  papers." 

"Haven't  you  got  no  stamps?" 

"No." 

"What  have  you  been  doin'?" 

"I've  been  in  an  office." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay?" 


234  The    Young   Outlaw. 

"The  boss  thought  he  wouldn't  need  me  n« 
longer." 

"I  see,"  said  Bill,  nodding.  "You  got 
sacked." 

"Not  exactly." 

"Same  thing." 

"Will  you  lend  me  the  money?" 

"I'd  never  get  it  back  ag'in." 

"Yes,  you  would." 

"I  dunno  about  that.  Where'd  you  get 
money  to  pay  me  back?" 

"The  boss  owes  me  two  dollars." 

"Why  don't  he  pay  you?" 

"One  of  my  friends  cheated  him  out  of  it, 
and  he  won't  pay  me  till  it's  paid  back." 

"Maybe  he  won't  pay  it  back." 

"Yes,  he  will.  Will  you  lend  me  the  money?" 

"No,  I  won't.  You'd  ought  to  have  saved 
money  like  I  have." 

"I'd  have  had  two  dollars,  if  Jim  hadn't 
stolen  the  money." 

"That  ain't  my  fault.  I  ain't  goin'  to  lose 
my  money  for  you.   You  can  save  like  I  do." 

Bill  was  right,  no  doubt.  He  was  a  bee,  and 
Sam  was  a  drone,  and  the  drones  are  always 


The    Young   Outlaw.  235 

ready  to  avail  themselves  of  the  accumulations 
of  their  more  industrious  brothers. 

Sam  began  to  feel  hungry.  However  irregu- 
lar he  might  be  in  other  ways,  his  appetite  was 
surprisingly  regular.  He  paused  in  front  of  a 
restaurant,  and  looked  wistfully  in  at  the  win- 
dows. 

"I  wish  I  was  a  waiter,"  he  thought.  "They 
have  all  they  want  to  eat  every  day." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Sam's  ambition  was  not 
a  lofty  one.  But  then  he  was  practical  enough 
to  see  that  three  square  meals  a  day  are  mora 
to  be  desired  than  empty  fame. 

As  he  was  standing  at  the  window  a  man 
from  within  came  to  the  door.  Being  without, 
a  hat,  Sam  supposed  him  to  be  connected  with 
the  restaurant,  as,  indeed,  he  was.  Sam  drew 
back,  supposing  that  he  was  to  be  sent  off. 
But  here  he  was  mistaken. 

"Come  here,  Johnny,"  said  the  proprietor, 
for  it  was  the  owner  of  the  restaurant  who 
addressed  our  hero. 

Sam  approached  wondering. 

"Have  you  had  dinner?" 

"No,"  said  Sam,  promptly. 


236  The   Young   Outlaw. 

"Would  you  like  some?" 

Sam's  answer,  in  the  affirmative,  was  equally 
prompt. 

"But  you  haven't  any  money,  eh?" 

"That's  so,"  said  Sam.  "Wonder  how  he 
found  out?"  he  thought. 

"We  don't  give  away  dinners,  but  you  can 
earn  one,"  said  Mr.  Pipkin,  for  it  was  Pipkin's 
Restaurant. 

"Do  you  want  me  for  a  waiter?"  asked  Sam, 
hopefully. 

"No;  you  wouldn't  do.  You  haven't  had  ex- 
perience. I  want  a  boy  to  distribute  handbills 
in  front  of  the  saloon.   Can  you  do  that?" 

"Yes,  I  can,"  said  Sam,  eagerly.  "I've  done 
that  before." 

"All  right.   Come  in." 

Sam  entered.  He  hoped  that  a  preliminary 
dinner  would  be  offered  him,  but  Mr.  Pipkin 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  in  advance,  and, 
perhaps,  he  was  right.  He  brought  forward  a 
pile  of  circulars  about  the  same  size  as  Dr. 
Graham's,  and  handed  them  to  Sam. 

"I've  just  opened  a  new  saloon,"  he  said, 
"and  I  want  to  invite  the  patronage  of  the  pub- 


The   Young   Outlaw.  237 

lie.  Stand  here,  and  distribute  these  to  the 
passersby." 

"All  right,"  said  Sam.  "When  will  you  give 
me  some  dinner?" 

"In  about  an  hour.  This  is  the  time  when 
people  generally  dine,  and  I  want  to  catch  as 
many  as  I  can." 

Sam  read  one  of  the  circulars  rapidly. 

This  is  the  way  it  read: 

"PIPKIN'S  DINING-ROOMS. 

Unsurpassed  for  the  Excellence  of  Cookery, 

and  the  Cheapness  of  Prices. 

Call  at  once,  and  you  will  be  sure  to  come 

again." 

"I'm  goin'  to  come  once,  and  I'll  call  again 
if  they'll  let  me,"  said  Sam  to  himself. 

In  about  an  hour  he  was  called  in.  The  cus- 
tomers had  thinned  out,  but  there  were  a  few 
at  the  tables.  Sam  was  directed  to  sit  down  at 
a  table  in  the  back  part  of  the  room. 

"Now,  then,"  said  the  waiter,  "hurry  up, 
young  'un,  and  tell  us  what  you  want." 

"Roast  turkey  and  cranberry  sauce," 
ordered  Sam. 


238  'lite    Yoking   Otitiaw. 

"All  out.  Try  again/'  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"Koast  chicken." 

"That's  all  out  too." 

Sam  looked  disappointed. 

"Oyster  stew." 

"All  out." 

"Is  everything  out?" 

"No ;  there's  some  roast  veal,  unless  you  pre* 
fer  hash." 

"I  don't  like  hash,"  said  Sam,  decidedly. 
"Bring  on  your  veal,  and  don't  forget  the  po- 
tatoes, and  some  bread  and  butter." 

"You've  got  a  healthy  appetite,"  said  the 
waiter. 

"You  bet  I  have,  and  I've  a  right  to  it.  I've 
earned  my  dinner,  and  I  want  it." 

The  articles  he  had  ordered  were  brought, 
and  he  attacked  them  with  vigor.  Then  he 
called  for  a  second  course, 

"A  piece  of  mince  pie." 

"All  out,"  said  the  waiter. 

"Apple  pie." 

"That's  out." 

"I  guess  your  customers  all  had  healthy  ap- 
petites to-day,"  said  Sam.    "Bring  on  some- 


The   Young   Outlaw.  239 

thing  or  other,  and  mind  you  bring  enough  of 
it." 

A  plate  of  rice  pudding  was  set  before  him, 
and  speedily  appropriated.  He  tried  to  get  a 
second  plate,  but  his  application  was  unsuc- 
cessful. He  was  given  to  understand  that  he 
was  entitled  to  only  one  plate,  and  was  forced 
to  rise  from  the  table  not  wholly  satisfied. 


240  The   Young   Outlaw, 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Sam  did  not  retain  his  new  position  long. 
A  week  later  he  was  dismissed.  Though  no 
reason  was  assigned,  the  proprietor  probably 
thought  it  better  to  engage  a  boy  with  a 
smaller  appetite.  But  Sam  was  by  no  means 
discouraged.  He  was  more  self-reliant  than 
when  nearly  a  year  before  he  entered  the  city, 
and  more  confident  of  rubbing  along  somehow. 
If  he  could  not  sell  papers,  he  could  black 
boots.  If  wholly  without  capital,  he  could 
haunt  the  neighborhood  of  the  piers,  and  seek 
employment  as  a  baggage-smasher. 

For  the  next  two  years  it  will  be  unneces- 
sary to  detail  Sam's  experience.  They  did  not 
differ  materially  from  those  of  other  street 
boys — now  a  day  of  plenty,  now  of  want,  now 
a  stroke  of  luck,  which  made  him  feel  rich  as 


The   Young   Outlaw.  241 

.  millionaire,  now  a  season  of  bad  fortune. 
Day  by  day,  and  week  by  week,  his  recollec- 
tions of  his  country  home  became  more  vague, 
and  he  could  hardly  realize  that  he  had  ever 
lived  anywhere  else  than  in  the  streets  of  New 
York.  It  was  at  this  time  that  the  unexpected 
encounter  with  Deacon  Hopkins  brought  back 
the  memories  of  his  early  life,  and  led  him  to 
contrast  them  curiously  with  his  present  ex- 
periences. There  did  not  seem  much  for  Sam 
to  be  proud,  of,  ragged  vagabond  as  he  was; 
but  for  all  that  he  looked  down  upon  his  for- 
mer self  with  ineffable  contempt. 

"What  a  greenhorn  I  was  when  I  first  came 
to  the  city!"  he  reflected.  "How  easy  I  was 
took  in !  I  didn't  know  nothin'  about  life  then. 
How  sick  I  was  when  I  smoked  my  first  cigar ! 
Now,  I  can  smoke  half  a  dozen,  one  after  the 
other,  only  I  can't  raise  the  stamps  to  buy 
'em.  How  I  fooled  the  deacon,  though!"  and 
Sam  laughed  in  hearty  enjoyment  of  the  joke. 
"J  wonder  what'll  he  say  of  me  when  he  gets 
back." 

Sam  plunged  his  hands  deep  down  into  his 
pockets.   There  was  nothing  to  hinder,  for,  as 


242  The    Young   Outlaw. 

usual,  they  were  empty.  He  had  spent  the 
small  amount  obtained  from  the  deacon,  and 
he  was  just  even  with  the  world.  He  had 
neither  debts  nor  assets.  He  had  only  daily 
recurring  wants,  and  these  he  was  not  always 
able  to  supply. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  made 
memorable  by  his  interview  with  the  deacon 
that  another  adventure  befell  Sam.  As  it  ex- 
hibits him  in  a  more  favorable  light  than 
usual,  I  am  glad  to  chronicle  it. 

He  was  lounging  about,  waiting  for  some* 
thing  to  turn  up,  when  he  felt  a  little  hand 
slipped  into  his,  and  heard  a  small  voice  plead* 
ing :   "Take  me  home.   I'm  lost." 

Sam  looked  down  in  surprise  to  find  his 
hand  clasped  by  a  little  boy,  apparently  about 
four  years  of  age.  What  attracted  him  to  Sam 
k  uncertain.  Possibly  his  face  seemed  familiar 
to  the  little  boy. 

"What's  your  name,  Johnny?"  asked  Sam, 
gently. 

"My  name  ain't  Johnny;  it's  Bertie,"  said 
the  little  boy. 

"What's  your  other  name?" 


The    Young   Outlaw.  243 

"Dalton." 

"Bertie  Dalton?" 

"Yes.   I  want  to  go  home." 

"So  you  shall,"  said  Sam,  good-naturedly, 
"if  you'll  tell  me  where  you  live." 

"Don't  you  know?"  asked  Bertie. 

"No." 

"I  thought  you  did,"  said  Bertie,  disap- 
pointed. "I  want  to  go  home  to  mamma." 

Sam  was  puzzled. 

"How  did  you  come  to  be  lost?"  he  asked. 

"I  went  over  with  Marie — that's  the  nurse 
— and  when  she  was  talking  with  another 
nurse  I  went  to  play.  Then  I  couldn't  find  her, 
and  I'm  so  frightened." 

"Don't  be  frightened,  Bertie,"  said  Sam, 
gently;  for  his  heart  was  drawn  to  the  little 
fellow.  "I  guess  I'll  find  your  home.  Let  me 
guoss.  Do  you  live  in  Twentieth  Street?" 

Bertie  shook  his  head. 

"Where  were  you  playing?" 

"In  the  park." 

"It  must  be  Union  Park,"  thought  Sam. 

An  idea  struck  him.  He  went  into  a  neigh- 
boring druggist's,  and,  asking  for  a  directory, 


244  The    Young   Outlaw. 

turned  to  the  list  of  Daltons.  There  was  only 
one  living  near  Union  Park ;  this  one  lived  on 
Fourteenth  Street,  between  Sixth  and  Seventh 
Avenues.  Sam  decided  to  take  the  child  into 
this  street,  and  see  if  he  recognized  it.  The  ex- 
periment proved  successful.  Arrived  in  the 
street  the  child  cried,  joyfully: 

"This  is  where  I  live." 

"Can  you  find  the  house?" 

"Yes;  it's  right  on,"  said  Bertie. 

In  brief,  Sam  took  Bertie  home.  He  found 
the  family  in  great  distress.  The  nurse  had  re- 
turned, and  declared  incoherently  that  Master 
Bertie  had  been  carried  off,  and  she  couldn't 
find  him  anywhere.  A  message  was  about  to 
be  sent  to  the  police  when  the  young  truant 
was  brought  home.  The  mother  clasped  him 
fondly  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  him  many 
times.   Then  she  bethought  herself  of  Sam. 

"How  can  I  thank  you,"  she  said,  gratefully, 
"for  bringing  my  darling  home?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  said  Sam.  "I  was  afraid 
at  first  I  couldn't  find  where  he  lived;  but  he 
told  me  his  name,  and  I  looked  in  the  direc- 
tory." 


The    Young    Outlaw.  2^5 

Mrs.  Dalton  saw  that  Sam  was  ragged,  and 
her  grateful  heart  prompted  her  to  do  some- 
thing for  him. 

"Have  you  any  place?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Sam. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  one?" 

"Yes,  I  should,"  said  Sam,  promptly.  "It's 
hard  work  getting  a  living  about  the  streets." 

"It  must  be,"  said  the  lady,  with  sympathy. 
"Have  you  no  friends?" 

"None,  except  poor  boys  like  I  am." 

"You  have  been  kind  to  my  dear  Bertie,  and 
I  want  to  do  something  to  show  my  gratitude. 
Without  you  I  shudder  to  think  what  might 
have  become  of  him." 

"Nobody'd  hurt  a  little  chap  like  him,"  said 
Sam. 

"They  might  steal  him,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton. 
"Have  you  had  any  dinner?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Come  into  the  house.  Maggie,  see  that  this 
boy  has  a  good  meal.  Take  care  of  him  till 
Mr.  Dalton  comes  home.  Then  I  will  see  what 
can  be  done  for  him." 

"All  right,  mum." 


246  The    Young   Outlaw. 

Sam  had  no  objections  to  this  arrangement. 
He  was  never  at  a  loss  for  an  appetite,  and  the 
prospect  was  an  attractive  one.  He  made  him- 
self at  home  in  the  kitchen,  where  his  rescue  of 
little  Bertie  and  the  evident  favor  of  Mrs.  Dal- 
ton  made  him  the  recipient  of  much  attention. 
He  felt  that  he  was  in  luck  for  once  in  his  life, 
and  was  convinced  of  it  when,  on  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Dalton,  he  was  offered  the  post  of  errand 
boy  at  five  dollars  a  week,  with  a  present  of 
five  dollars  in  advance.  He  asked  no  time  for 
consideration,  but  accepted  at  once. 

"You  may  report  for  service  to-morrow 
morning,"  said  Mr.  Dalton.  "There  is  my 
business  card.   Can  you  find  it?" 

"I  know  where  it  is,"  said  Sam.  "I'll  be 
there." 

Sam's  chance  had  come.  He  was  invited  to 
fill  an  humble  but  respectable  position  in  life. 


THE  END. 


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Adrift  in  New  York. 

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Mark  Mason. 

Andy  Gordon. 

Only  an  Irish  Boy. 

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Bound  to  Rise. 

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Shifting  for  Himself. 

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Sink  or  Swim. 

Driven  from  Home. 

Slow  and  Sure. 

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Store  Boy. 

Facing  the  World. 

Strive  and  Succeed. 

Five  Hundred  Dollars. 

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Frank's  Campaign. 

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Tom,  the  Bootblack. 

Helping  Himself. 

Tony,  the  Tramp. 

Herbert  Carter's  Legacy. 

Try  and  Trust. 

In  a  New  World. 
Jack's  Ward, 

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Walter  Sherwood's  Pro- 
bation. 

Jed, the  Poor  House  Boy. 

Young  Acrobat. 

Joe's  Luck. 

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We  publish  six  of 
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CAMPING  OUT 

FOX  HUNTING 

LEFT  ON  LABRADOR 
LYNX  HUNTING 

OFF  TO  THE  GEYSERS 
ON  THE  AMAZON 


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I     El 


T. 

Trowbridge 


Here  is  an  author  who  is  famous- — 

whose  writings  delight  both  boys  and 

8  girls.     Enthusiasm   abounds   on    every 

page   and   interest   never    grows    old. 

A  few  of  the  best  titles  are  given : 

COUPON  BOND& 
CUDJCH3  CAVE. 

THE  DRUMMER  BOY. 

MARTIN  MERRYVALE,  HIS  X  MARK. 
FATHER  BRIGHT  HOPES. 
LUCY  ARLYN. 

NEIGHBOR  JAOKWOOD. 
THE  THREE  SCOUTS. 

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taining to  the  War. 
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with  reference  to  the 
Great  Rebellion  have 
been  read  by  tnousands.  We  have  popular- 
ized him  by  publishing  his  best  works  at 
reduced  prices. 

Fallowing:  the  Flag".       Charles  Carleton  Coffin 

My  Bays  and  Nights  oat  the  Battlefield, 

Charles  Carleton  Coffin 


Winning-  Mis  Way. 


Charles  Carleton  Coffin 


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Henry  C.  Watson 

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Capt.  Marryaf's  Works 

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brated for  his  Sea 
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bound  to  please  and 
entertain  their  read- 
ers and  we  urgently 
ask  that  boys  obtain 
the  complete   set  of 

six  books.     No  library  is   complete 

without  them. 

Jacob  Faithful 

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Masterman  Beady 

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Peter  Simple 
Rattlin,  the  Reefer 

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BOY  TRAPPERS 

FRANK  AT  DON  CARLOS  RANCHO 

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FRANK  ON  A  GUNBOAT 

FRANK  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

FRANK,  THE  YOUNG  NATURALIST 


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|  HURST  &  CO.,  Publisher,  NEW  YORK 

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